Every Missing Irony
by words without
Summary: -Certain RoyRiza themes- "You think: I won't survive this."
1. 26: cureless

AN-- Yup, I've returned. This is just something new I'm trying out; I found the list of Royai themes and realized, 'wow, I actually have some ideas for them!'. So here they are. They will all be either Roycentric, Rizacentric, or Royai, obviously enough. 

I won't be doing all the themes, just the ones that stand out, and I won't be doing them in order. However, if you're curious to see a rarely-done theme written, let me know and I'd be glad to give it a shot.

**_disclaimer for the whole thing:_ **don't own. trust me, you'd know if i did. there'd be royriza smut in every episode.

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**Into the Liquid Inferno  
**_(26. cureless)_

Even though it's painfully hot, Roy can't remember the last time he felt this cold. His fingers tremble as he unscrews the cap off his canteen—

(_Oh god oh god I killed so many so many all at once oh god it shouldn't be this easy to kill people…)_

--where, inside, there's the echo of water sloshing about. The sound is torture to his dehydrated body; at the moment, he craves a drink as much as he does salvation from Ishbal. Greedily, he raises the canteen to his lips and takes a long drink.

It hurts.

It singes him, feels like it's burning—like he's swallowing fire. The water's a pile of blazing ashes in his mouth, a scorched wave down his throat, a fierce, fiery flash dropping into his stomach. It's almost like drinking battery acid; it stings just as bad.

Roy chokes, spits out the tepid liquid. He stumbles back against the brick wall behind him, the only thing left standing in a large pile of rubble. All of Ishbal looks like this, thanks to him and his fellow State Alchemists. Everything's been destroyed.

Numbly, he wipes his mouth and stares back down at his canteen in dazed confusion. The water's been there all day, no doubt warmed considerably by the blinding gaze of the sun, but even so—there's no reason for it to be as hot as it is. A minute ago, he was freezing; now it's as if he's snapped and set himself alight.

And, yes, a part of him knows that in reality, the liquid is only lukewarm. But his mind can't grasp the fact….

Roy is allowed no happiness here. Not even the momentary pleasure of a semi-cool drink on a withering day.

He turns the canteen over, watching listlessly as the water spills out. In the desert, water is a precious commodity, and wasting it is akin to murder, but…

_What good will a mouthful of burning water do?_ he thinks, rather dully. He knows, now: it could be freezing cold and it wouldn't help. He still wouldn't be able to taste it. _Just my mind playing tricks…_but, honestly, what does Roy have _left_ but his mind?

Not that he even really _has_ his mind, these days.

He sighs, rubs his head. It's practically splitting open with pain. Not physical pain, either, just…

Just a dead, dry ache that seems to fairly scream of his cruelty. The one thing Roy's sure this war won't take from him is the knowledge that he is a monster.

A monster.

_(All of them dead just following orders god I'm sick of this god I wish it would end…)_

A devil, bathed in flames.

It makes sense, he decides after a while, that water should become poison to his system. He _is_ the Flame Alchemist….and it was certainly foolish of him to think that a few wet, puny drops could quench his thirst. Redemption isn't that easy—Roy know he'll be thirsty the rest of his life.

* * *

That night, alone in his tent, he drinks himself into a drunken stupor, clutching at the smuggled-in liquor like it's his last lifeline. Unlike water, he discovers, the alcohol doesn't burn going down—at least, it doesn't burn any worse then it usually does. He's….not _pleased_ to realize this, just…just relieved. Just flat-out grateful that there's still something he can drink that stays in his stomach.

It's not as if the booze _dulls_ his thirst, though—come morning he'll be as parched and dry-mouthed as ever. Still, what the alcohol _does_ is a welcome compromise—it makes him forget. For a few blissful hours, Roy's able to loose track of the incessant itch at the back of his throat. It's nice…for the first time in a long time, he's gone completely numb. Completely.

Sometimes Roy envies those who are dead. Death these days seems to him to be nothing more or less then a chance to be utterly unaware. Utterly submerged. To close your eyes and fade off into that unassuming blackness, to lose yourself in eternity's drifting waters…life is supposed to be the more-desired choice of the two, and yet…

Roy looks around at the 'life' he has and detests the irony.

* * *

Midnight passes. The distant screams that make up Ishbal do not. With all the fighting—

_(murdering, ruining)_

--Roy and the other soldiers have done, it feels as if the Ishbalan race should have been obliterated long before now, but still the cries continue, still far-off voices call out in the dead of night. Perhaps it's their ghosts that wail into the darkness.

* * *

Morning begins to break. The sun's pale strands seeping into his tent seem grey, seem sapped of energy. It's an odd phenomenon, because Roy knows that in a few short hours, the glare will be so hard and invading that all the world will feel baked into submission. But for now, the light is faint, weak, and cloudy against the dirt.

Roy's exhausted—he's spent most of the night tossing and turning, searching for that elusive lover, sleep. With morning's arrival he gives up and drags himself wearily from his cot. His stomach is churning, and his head's already beginning to pound. He hasn't had a good night's sleep since he's been here, and by now the tired, dragging lethargy has seeped right into his bones.

Idly, not quite sure he has the stamina to get through another day, Roy wonders about the end of the war. For so long, he's prayed for it…but really, he muses now, what's the point? It's not as if there'll be anything left of him by the time it comes to see it—too much of Roy Mustang has worn drearily away. Too much of him has turned into dust, powder, so much tenebrous smoke. Too much of him is dead.

The end of the war….

Roy wonders dully if he'll be able to recognize it when it comes.

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	2. 97: if I die

AN-- Not really happy with this one. It didn't turn out like I was hoping, and I was going to twerk it a bit more before posting, but what with Royai Day and all, I figured, what the hell. Mostly stream-of-conciousness writing, so it's kinda confusing...hopefully you'll be able to make heads or tails of it.

And yes, there's Royai in this one. Depressing Royai, but Royai all the same. **

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**When the Game Ends  
**_(97. If I die)_

There are no rules to this life.

Nothing makes sense. Nothing has reason. Nothing has substance.

Roy heard once (from who, he can't remember, only that the words stuck with him, their calm, resigned philosophy absorbing his own) that life is nothing but a giant game—learn the rules and you win. If that's the case, then Roy's is the piece captured by other players, the piece shoved uselessly off the board.

If that's the case, then the rules are too complex and too shrouded in mist to make any sort of sense to him. If that's the case, then cheating is allowed, backstabbing forgiven, cruel twists of fate preferred and met with over-joy.

Roy wants nothing more, if his existence really is just an _ordinary diversion_, then to throw up his hands and announce to the world that he's quit. He was stubborn once, but that was before. Before Ishbal. Before the stakes shot up so high.

He was willing, at first, to try and adapt to this strange land, to deal his hand like everyone else and see what came of it. The problem was he had so little to go on to begin with. The one clear-cut idea he could make out was, that at any time and for any reason, his life could come crashing down to a halt, could end for all eternity.

That was fine with him. That was the nature of war, after all. That was the nature of this game. So be it.

But now that he's met _her_….

Now that he's met Riza, he doesn't want to keep playing anymore. Cowardly or not, he'd love to be able to throw in the towel, throw it in for both of them. He'd love to be able to turn tail and run from this war, this perverse little way to pass the time. Honor, respect, glory….he's stopped caring about them one way or another. What shinning rewards they could present him with pale in comparison with the life _she_ could give him—quiet anonymity and gentle peace of mind.

He _could_ quit, actually. Like Armstrong did. Find whichever high-ranked official controls this sort of thing and tell him he was done. Done with this war, this directionless sport. Sure, it'd be the end of his military career, sure, he'd have no hopes of ever being promoted again, sure, his fellow comrades-in-arms would look at him with nothing but derision and scorn. Sure. Great. Whatever.

At least if he refused to fight and was sent back home—or even better, deserted, with Riza by his side—he'd be, well…._back home_. Back to Central. Back to that bustling, normal city. Back to that bustling, normal _life_. That in itself would be a prize.

Because his old life….his old life made sense. His old life could be figured out. Roy knew what the rules were, knew how to play. Most of all, though, he knew that as long as he followed those rules, everything would work out just like it was supposed to. Oh, there was always the unexpected sharp turn or the unforeseen pothole, of course—life, no matter where it takes place, can never be _totally_ predictable. But still. In his old life, Roy understood exactly how everything worked—follow the rules, look both ways, and you'd be fine. With just enough surprises to keep one from getting cocky, existence in the normal world was safe enough so that one didn't have to go through every day in mortal terror.

Not like here.

Not like in Ishbal, where there aren't any rules…..none that make sense, anyway. In Ishbal, no matter what you do, you can still find yourself at the receiving end of a bullet; payback for a crime that you might not have committed. Here, what goes around doesn't always come around, and sometimes karma bites the wrong person.

After all, surely back home, a man like Kimbly would be punished for his sick audacity instead of praised. Surely, if those same directions still applied, he'd have been felled by a bullet weeks ago, instead of gliding proudly through battle after battle without so much as a scratch, while so many others--

_(others more deserving of life) _

--dropped into dark, black puddles around him.

After his first dizzy week here in Hell Reincarnate, Roy stopped caring. He stopped trying to figure out how he was supposed to play the game. Whatever happened, happened. Death was no longer something to dread. It was, if anything, something to welcome. Something to need.

And then he met Riza.

And then he started caring again.

And now he feels as if he's going to lose his mind.

God! The things that can happen to a person out here! Capture, torture, mental insanity…death is a less-then-nothing threat when compared with the other horrors the desert harbors.

Even worse, there's no way to _prevent_ them. How can you form a game-plan to keep someone safe when you don't even know the rules! At any moment, she could die. At any moment, no matter what he does, no matter how safe he plays it, he could find himself trapped in a ceaseless nightmare…trapped without her.

Distantly, Roy wonders if Riza has the same lurking fears. Does she also wish there was some magic cheat code that would see them safely through the war?

_(Like when you were little, and you played tag, and there was always a home base to run to, because no one could keep running forever, and it was so much more reassuring to know there was a place you could count on, a place always safe.)_

"If I die," he breathes against her, feeling her body stiffen underneath his,

_(They are curled so close together more out of necessity then anything; his cot is barely big enough for one person, much less two. Curled together in the dead of night, whispering in case someone should hear. Ironic. They could keep their affair secret for as long as they wanted, probably, but still find each other torn apart by some sniper's hand. The rules in Ishbal, if they do exist, are contradictory.)_

"If I die—"

"You won't," she tells him, sounding so sure and so determined. "I won't let you."

Roy wants to laugh, although he doesn't—how can she be so confident? There isn't any logic out in this land of sandy fog; anything could happen. Tomorrow could find him sprawled face down in the dust. Tomorrow could find so many things…

"What would you do if I died?" he asks her, voice low and breathy, stumbling over the words as they fly out of his mouth with an almost crazed ecstasy. He feels for a moment as if he is standing on the edge of a cliff, the edge of the world; he doesn't know what's happening to him, but if it comes down to it he can always blame the desert.

Riza tenses; her eyes--

_(such a hard color to accurately describe, he thinks) _

--show her blatant uneasiness.

"Why are you asking me this?" she demands, stern but for the catch in the back of her throat that gives her fear away.

Roy wishes he could tell her, but he can't, because he doesn't know himself. Why, why, why…but there are no responses to these types of questions—or maybe he just doesn't like the answers. Why, why, why…

_What would you do if I died? If all you had left of me were bleached bones splayed out against the violent sands? _

It's just that he _needs _to know—_needs_ to. There's so little about this new world he understands, these days…

_What would you do if I died? Would you mourn? Would tomorrow for you never come? Would you move on? Would you fade away?_

_Would you remember me?_

(Riza is his constant. His given. His life. And it hurts to realize this, because in this land of anarchy there are no guarantees.)

Maybe he asks because he wants to know what form of grief would grab hold of Riza if he died. _When_ he dies. It's likely to happen, after all. In the _normal_ world, it wouldn't—never in a million years. Fate there isn't nearly as cruel. Two people who live and breathe only for the other would never be separated, not this soon. They would have years and years, at the very least, of heaven as it could only ever be.

But this is a new world. This is a world without reason, a world gone mad. And here, two lovers being so quickly torn apart is an old story, yesterday's news. No one even blinks an eye. It seems cold, perhaps, but after a while battered emotions take refuge from the storm. After a while, there is only emptiness, only numbness setting in.

Roy knows that he will probably lose her. It's Ishbal. What it isn't is fair, nor right…but it's Ishbal. Reasoning unto itself. So he prepares for that inevitable outcome.

_What will you do when I die?_

When the game has no rules, losing is the only possibility. At least now he knows what to expect from the loss.


	3. 65: the you reflected in the glass

AN-- I have no idea where this one came from. At first, it was two seperate drabbles, but the first one (the first section in this) felt too short and unfinished, so I combined them. For something written around studying for finals, I'm pretty satisified with the way it turned out.

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**Nightly Absolution  
**_(65. The you reflected in the glass)_

What is it about fire that draws her close?

Like Dante, she moves ever-forward, surrounding herself in flames until she's consumed, until she lives, breathes, _lusts_ for smoke and blackened ash. There's no real sense to it, and Riza's used to her decisions making sense…but on some level, she realizes she doesn't mind the foolishness of this new-found obsession.

On some level, she realizes, she actually enjoys it.

What is it about _him_ she's so captured by? Black hair, smoldering eyes, that smirk…everything about Roy Mustang screams danger, screams turmoil, screams uproar. Everything. But with a resolve so faithful it surprises even _her_, she plunges in, again and again, thrusting her entire self, body and soul, into the flames, trusting that he won't let her burn.

And he doesn't.

Truthfully, she isn't sure why she's given herself into this reckless fever-dream that is her relationship with Roy. She could blame it on the light-headed euphoria that flows through her mind when he's near—the almost _drunken_ high she gets just from being around him. But she doesn't, because that isn't the whole picture—it isn't even close.

The whole picture, Riza knows, has to do with the way he comes to her when the weight on his shoulders becomes too much to bear.

* * *

Ishbal was long ago, but Riza is reminded of it every time he kisses her. This isn't necessarily a _bad_ thing…it's just a hard, emotionless truth. He tastes like the desert, like lonely winds and wistful fantasy. There's an aching sadness to Roy that permeates throughout him; Riza can almost _see_ the soft regret pouring from his gaze. At times, during the day, when the sun's glare overwhelms, it's hard for her to notice this incessant melancholy, but the day is only so long, and it's at night that the colonel's demons come out to play.

After all, nights are different. It's at night that Roy is most vulnerable; it's then that he has the most trouble staying so self-contained. Sometimes, when they are together and alone, it becomes all but impossible. Roy Mustang holds himself together with the most brittle of materials, and even Riza can't always patch the cracks back together in time.

* * *

Tonight, apparently, is a desperate one. Without speaking, he holds her, pressing his face to her shoulder and hiding his eyes. Riza pretends not to notice his jerky, silent sobs, or the sudden wetness against her bare skin.

After a while, the tremors racking his body ease; he looks up at her, offering a shaky smile in a weak attempt to prove he's all right. He whispers to her in a low, haunted voice, promising her a million things over again.

(She doesn't respond, because truthfully she needs none of what he says he'll give her. She has him, and that's enough.)

But nevertheless, he swears against her skin how different he will make the world. He'll fix it, repair what is broken. He will.

Riza never says that she believes him, although she does so wholeheartedly; she knows he isn't really talking to her. He's trying to assure _himself_ of what the future holds.

As the hours wear on, Roy continues to murmur out loud his dreams and desires. Sometimes his voice cracks; sometimes he laments the futility of this _self-pity, _such a sin in his eyes. He acts disgusted with himself for acting so _weak_. His obsidian gaze meets her amber one for a moment, then falters; after a minute, he admits that he's afraid.

Afraid for the future. Afraid for them. Afraid of getting lost in a dream as blissful as this….dreams are so very flimsy, after all.

* * *

Eventually, morning comes, as it is wont to do—Roy's back to his usual, guardedly carefree self again, as is the normal routine. These nights of release are important to him; they give him a chance to breathe when the pressure gets to be too much. But Riza's well-aware that such moments can never last.

It frustrates her, sometimes, when he hides behind that smug façade, but she would never suggest he act any other way. Humans, she understands, especially the ones they're surrounded by, are like sharks becoming vicious at the sight of blood—if they saw any weakness, no matter how small, they'd rip Roy to shreds. It's a dirty business the colonel's gotten himself involved in….there never was any doubt about that. And, no, it isn't fair, him having to suffer in silence the way he does, but fairness and the world separated long ago.

So they make do.

Roy hides his helpless rage and presents to the world that devil-may-care persona. Riza stands beside him and keeps watch. When night falls, bringing with it that comforting blanket of darkness, he lets his defenses fail, and Riza is there to guard him.

And come morning, she hands him back his mask.

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	4. 4: grave

AN- Wow, did this take forever to write. It's cliche and uber-long, but oh well. As for the quote, expect to see a lot of them popping up in my stuff. I kinda like the concept.

This was actually written in a bunch of spurts, and it shows...which is why it rambles so much! Ah well, I just wanted to get the thing finished. Had the worst time trying to figure out the ending...

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**The Union of Hope and Hopeless  
**_(4. Grave)_

_"O God! can I not grasp  
Them with a tighter clasp?  
O God! can I not save  
**One** from the pitiless wave?"_  
--Edgar Allan Poe_, A Dream Within A Dream_

This is, by far, the hardest thing he's ever done.

Just sitting here, _waiting_…Roy's seen and done a lot of things; he suffers with quite a few regrets. And yet, he's come to the conclusion that he's never been this anxious, this _terrified_, before in his life. Ever.

It's not _fair_. He knows how childish a complaint that is, knows how little it helps, but still. _Still_. There are some things, he's decided, that are far too beautiful to be accurately described with mere _words_, and Riza is one of them.

The world should know better, Roy thinks, then to interfere with those things. The world should know to leave them alone.

Idly—

(God, how can he be _idle_? His world is _this close_ to shattering into worthless bits around him, and all he can do is _sit there_? God.)

—Roy checks his watch. Almost ten. What was it that nurse told him about visiting hours? He's pretty sure they ended a while ago. It doesn't matter, really…it's not as if he's doing any actual _visiting_. He's just sitting out here in the waiting room, uselessly, taking up space. It'd probably be easier on his stressed, fraying composure if he went home, but…

He feels like he should be here, even if there isn't anything he can do. He feels better knowing that if something were to happen, he could reach her in a matter of minutes.

Not that he'd be able to do anything once there. Not that he could help her, no matter how much he wants to. He is useless, useless, _useless_, Roy thinks bitterly, and it isn't even raining.

The haggard, worn-looking Flame Alchemist shifts in his chair, silently bemoaning the hard plastic of the seat, wondering why it is that hospital waiting rooms have to be so damn uncomfortable. Or maybe it's just that he's so on edge right now that he can feel every little pinprick sensation.

Fuck, it'd be so much better if he was drunk…if he was so numb that nothing could leave a mark on him. It'd be so much _easier_ if the world was encased in some smooth fog…

Because, now that it comes down to it, what's the point of feeling? Hell, what's the point of _living_ if the one person you _need_ gets dragged away from you?

The one person….Roy suddenly feels sick. He's been trying not to think about it, but what if—what if she _does_ die? What is he supposed to do then?

Furiously, helplessly, he knots his hands into tight fists. If he does have to feel something, does have to go through this, then he'll feel only anger and go through it incensed. He finds it interesting (or he would, if he could focus enough on it) to discover that blind rage does have its benefits, after all. Anger keeps the other emotions at bay. Anger keeps him from splitting wide open with raw-lined strain. Anger allows him to focus the brunt of his thinking on revenge, instead of on just how precarious Riza's current hold on life _is_.

Right now, all Roy Mustang wants to do is concentrate on getting back at the bastards who did this to her. Revenge if she dies will be utterly pointless, but still—he's used to vengeful wrath, used to pride. He understands how they work, has figured out how to handle them. But he's _not_ used to such a total, fearful agony, and he _doesn't_ know how to suffer through it and come out unscathed.

Hell, he doesn't know how to come out at _all_.

"It isn't fair," he says again, this time out loud. It isn't. It isn't. The words become his mantra, repeated over and over again, giving him something real, something strong and safe, to hold to and focus on.

It isn't fair. (His voice sounds brittle and toneless in that empty waiting room.) Not fair at all.

He murmurs the wear-worn line till his voice goes hoarse, and finds himself faced with that all-too-genuine truth: words are just words, and there's nothing he can do to make them stay. To bring about their promised results.

Roy shifts again in his chair. He feels like he's going crazy, and right now he doesn't even care.

He hates waiting. _Hates_ it. But in some ways he almost prefers it over learning the bad news he's sure is going to come. (He's hopeless and hopeful at the same time, and so tired of being wracked by that toxic paradox.)

_Tick tick tick…_

Roy can hear the sound of the clock hanging on the opposite wall drilling itself into his brain. Damn it, when did that clock get so _loud?_ As if he really needs _another_ reminder of how many hours he's been here…

God, the noise is driving him insane. Although, maybe he should be grateful—if it wasn't for the clock, there'd be only silence, and Roy's sure a room full of pure quiet would drive him mad as well.

He half-wishes that there was someone here with him—Havoc, Fury, anyone. Hell, even Fullmetal'd be an acceptable waiting partner at this point. He needs someone to talk to, even if he isn't sure what he'd say.

They were here earlier, actually; all of his subordinates had rushed over as soon as they heard the news. And Roy, sitting by her bedside, had stubbornly ordered them all to leave. His reasons had been selfish at best: he'd wanted to make sure she was still alive, and their nervous chatter had masked the delicate sound of the heart monitor's beeping.

That damn beeping's another noise Roy's sure he'll hear in his nightmares for the rest of forever. It was such a…a frustrating noise, because there was nothing he could do but sit there and listen to it. If it had started to slow, stumble, even stop altogether, there would be nothing he could do to urge it onwards. Nothing. And that's what's so hard about all of this…there's _nothing_ he can do.

(And yet, the monitor's racket was as hopeful as it was frustrating…because if the noise was still there, then Riza was still there, and that was the important thing. That was the _only_ thing.)

Roy clenches his fists even tighter. Why the hell is he here! He should be with her, with Riza, sitting by the bedside and pleading her breath onwards. Damn that doctor for kicking him out…

"_Sir, I'm sorry, but her situation is too unstable. Until further notice, I can't allow any visitors into her room. I'm sorry. I know you want to be with her, but in all honesty she wouldn't even know you were there."_

"_That's not the point!"_

It really wasn't the point, whether she knew he was there or not. He needed to be there for himself, for _his_ sanity. The waiting area might only be a few steps from her room, but those few steps might as well lead into eternity. A day late or a second, the only thing that would matter if she died without him beside her would be that he was _too late_.

Again.

The vicious cycle coming back around…Roy thought he'd learned his lesson the last time, but history repeats itself nonetheless.

_Maes…_

He swore it…he swore he'd never let another person he loved slip through his grasp. He swore he'd never sit by and watch while life he should have been protecting was wrenched away. He…he promised, dammit! He promised the air and the wind and the rainless storm raging inside him as he stood over the fresh grave of his best friend…no more innocent lives would be lost because of him. He wasn't—isn't—worth it, never has been and never will be.

And yet, here's another life falling away….

How the hell did this happen? It wasn't supposed to…nothing could have…if he'd just….all the would haves-should haves-could haves are swirling around, suffocating him.

This life that's so entwined with his is drifting…fading….

_And it's all his fault._

* * *

Midnight comes. Roy's body feels laden-down and heavy with exhaustion, but he doesn't give in and fall asleep. He's too afraid of what might happen if he does. God only knows how terrible his dreams would be. Edgily, he lingers, staring at the chaotic memories that make up this bloody mess…

When did it happen?

When did it get this bad? It was just a _day_…when did this nightmare decide to unfold?

_Him. Her. A warm, sunny, almost-summer day, and an opportunity to discuss something far more captivating, to Roy's mind, then work. _

"_Care to join me for lunch, Lieutenant?"_

"_Very well, sir."_

_Roy tried to hide his smile at her formal expression. Riza was so business-like during the day, sometimes even **he** had trouble remembering their secret liaisons after hours._

"_There's a new place that opened up right by my apartment…"_

"_I understand, Colonel."_

Yes, she understood perfectly…if Roy's apartment was nearby, then chances were they'd be stopping in for a bit afterwards. Not an uncommon event…they took every chance they had.

And yet, Riza would never suggest the idea on her own. It was Roy's perverse eagerness that sent them in that direction….

Damn!

(Any way he looks at it, Roy has only himself to blame.)

* * *

The colonel goes for a drink of water at about one in the morning, but finds the lukewarm liquid far too bitter for his tastes. His throat feels lined with sand paper; his skin crawls as if dotted by acid. There will be no comfort, no matter how minor, until the pendulum chooses its direction. This discovery made, he returns to his seat and allows the guilt to resume its mental destruction.

_He should have known to be careful. Walking down a busy street, he should have known to be alert. Instead he made inane side chatter and strutted about as if he owned the world. _

_They turned a corner. The world around them was easy, calm…and then—a shot—_

_A sniper…!_

_Even as Roy's mind made the connection, he was ducking, grabbing Hawkeye by the arm and pulling her into an ally, out of the way. Riza pulled away, took out and clicked the safety off her gun, then fired—onetwothree, all in quick succession. It was hard to tell if she'd hit their assailant or not, but after nearly ten minutes went by with no returning of fire, Roy felt it was safe to assume._

_Carefully, his gloves on, (though what good they'd do him right now, he hadn't yet figured out) he stepped out from the alleyway. This street, unlike the one they were previously on, was empty except for them, so there were no screaming civilians to worry about. He made a mental note to be thankful for small favors._

_Roy took another few steps, scanning the area. He was more then open, so the fact that he was still breathing meant that the sniper was either dead, or had gotten away. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair, and turned to look at Hawkeye, who'd followed him out. She was standing against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, watching him, waiting for his next orders. _

_She looked fine. Absolutely fine._

* * *

Two o'clock AM. With the exception of a custodian or two, Roy's seen no one for hours. He wishes for a second time that he'd never ordered his subordinates to leave. When they'd been here, he hadn't wanted to listen to their uncertain words of encouragement and sympathy, however well-meant. Now, however, he has a feeling he wouldn't mind hearing that everything was going to be ok.

Hughes. If Hughes was here, things would be so much better, Roy knows that for sure. It's a fact, if for no other reason then that Maes's cheerful optimism was unstoppable. He'd know what to say to keep the Flame Alchemist going. He always knew what to say. The right words had taken permanent residence in his mouth.

But he isn't here. He never will be.

When Roy first got the news that Hughes had died—had been _murdered_—his initial reaction was one of regret. Regret that he hadn't been there when it happened. Maybe, if he _had_ been, he could have done…something…anything…to save him…

Now, of course, he knows that's not true. Because he _was_ there when Riza was shot, and he couldn't do a thing.

"_Holy fuck…" _

_Roy took a deep breath, coming off the adrenaline rush caused by being shot at. "Ok. The bastard's either dead or long gone. Either way, I don't think the two of us going to check it out alone is all that smart. Let's get back to headquarters."_

_She nodded. If he'd been looking more carefully, he would have noticed the strange, disjointed look in her eyes, but he wasn't, so he didn't. _

_(He should have noticed sooner, dammit, why didn't he pay more attention!)_

"_Damn, this is going to be such a hassle…it was probably just some nut, but we're going to need to look and see if it fits any known terrorist group's style…ugh, and the higher-ups will grill us on this for a month…well, whatever. We need to get back."_

"…_Yes…sir…"_

_It was the weak, tired tone to her voice that made his eyes widen. Riza **never** showed her weakness. Even if she was exhausted, her voice would stay calm, alert, smoothing over whatever ailments she might have. It was almost a law, with her, that weakness be hidden…to her, that was a part of what made up loyalty. Strength…the courage to put the assignment before the person. _

_But now, she sounded as if she was seconds away from collapsing… _

_Alarmed, he stared harder at her. It was then that he noticed the distant, fading light in her unfocused mahogany eyes. It was then that he realized she wasn't standing against the wall, but leaning against it for support. It was then that he saw that her arms weren't simply crossed over her chest, but clenched over, tightly. Behind her, there was a staggering trail of too-red blood splashed thinly out against the cracked pavement._

_Roy stared._

_The world around him went silent. What he felt in that moment, what emotions were tearing through his head, could never be expressed in words. Pure beauty and pure terror are two things that cannot be captured in meaningless symbols. _

"_Hawkeye…!"_

_Her legs buckled just as he reached her; he grabbed her and lowered her into his arms, terror-stricken. "Hawkeye! Riza! What the hell…!_?

_She looked up at him, white faced, and opened her mouth as if to say something, but no sound came out. Roy could feel her shivering despite the balmy temperature; gently, he moved her arms away. Riza resisted only slightly, as if she no longer had the strength to control her limbs. _

"_Riza…" Her name drifted out of his mouth in a low moan. There was a huge, ever-growing, muddy purple stain spreading across the front of her uniform. Roy could see the ragged-edged bullet hole glaring from her chest._

_His mind whirled and was assaulted by panic. _She's been shot, Riza's been shot, I should have noticed sooner, what now, what now, what…?

_Wait! He blinked as something struck him. This…this didn't make **sense**! The sniper had most likely been aiming for him, since he was the higher-ranked and more-well-known of the two. But even if he was aiming for Riza, he shouldn't have been able to **hit** her! Roy was the one walking closer to the street, with Riza on the inside…any bullet fired should have struck **him**, not her!_

_He looked back down, clutching her tighter in his arms. "R-Riza…what did you…?"_

_Her voice was so faint it was hardly a whisper, scratching at Roy's ears. "…C-Colonel…I'm…sorry…"_

_No. No. She wasn't **apologizing** for being shot. This wasn't happening. This was a dream…!_

"_Riza," he begged, "don't. How did you get hit? I was…I was the one…"_

_She didn't answer, but he saw the answer reflected in those fading eyes._

"_You….you…." A helpless sort of fury took control of him. No! This couldn't be happening! She'd…she'd taken the bullet for him_?_! Dodged in front before he could be struck down…No! "Riza, you…why…"_

_Another weak murmuring: "You…more important then…for your mission, you…have to…survive…"_

"_No! Don't say it. Don't even…dammit, Riza!" He shook his head, wildly. He wouldn't **let** this be real!_

_Hawkeye turned her head—it seemed to take every ounce of her strength—and coughed, violently; the rasps brought up blood, thick and bright and red. The ooze wore its warning colors proudly as it leaked from her mouth to the floor._

"_No—hey! Hawkeye, stay with me, come on!"_

_Her eyes flickered to his again, and she smiled weakly. "R-Roy…" _

_Another spasm took hold of her, and she shuddered. By the time it was over, something had happened, something had changed. It was as if she'd rounded a corner and gone too far for Roy to reach. Her eyes as they flickered shut were so dim…_

"_**Hawkeye!**_

* * *

Startled, Roy jerks awake. Somehow, despite everything, it seems he's gone and fallen asleep sitting up. Cursing under his breath, (what if something had happened? How could he risk _sleep_ at a time like this?) he stretches, trying without success to work the kinks from his back.

Looking around, the colonel discovers that he's no longer alone in the room. His subordinates have crept back in during the night. Havoc gives him a small smile; otherwise, his fellow soldiers are as stationary and withdrawn as he's been, waiting for news.

Roy can't help but wonder what kind of news they're actually watching for, come to think of it. What are the chances that they'll actually get what they want? Isn't it better to know and morn without hope, then to be forever wrestling with uncertainty? And yet…

To desperately need unsubstantial prayer, even as that dumb optimism becomes enough to drive a man insane…maybe that _would_ be better then having the flat out answer. Because Roy knows, in the pit of his stomach, what the answer will be: it's over. It's finished. It's done.

You've failed someone else.

Weakly, Roy considers the oh-so-fragile strands of gossamer and silk…the strands that are currently holding him together, the strands he'll lose if the answer says what he doesn't want to hear. Day's vanquish of night is supposed to make everything seem better, says the formula, but to him, the sun's embrace is as flimsy as his resolve.

Hopeful, hopeless...what happens when Roy's not sure which he'd rather be?

* * *

* * *

AN- That ending just begs for a sequal. Hm. 


	5. 69: are you satisfied? sequel to 4

AN-- Well. First off, sorry about the month-long delay in updating. I got stuck like you wouldn't believe. I honestly couldn't come up with an ending for the life of me...and I also remembered why I hate writing sequals to things: you can't post anything else till the sequal's up! I actually wrote two other one-shots in the process of hating/writing this one...but couldn't post them. (The first should be up by Friday, hopefully.)

Um, yeah. Some of this is actually more poetic prose then anything, but I've been on a poetry kick lately, so I guess it translated over.

* * *

* * *

**Perfect?  
**_(69. are you satisfied?)_

"_Striving to better, oft we mar what's well."  
_William Shakespeare, _King Lear_

Calmly, she fires her gun.

The bullets hit the target dead center—_bam, bam, bam_, a dozen tiny explosions leading to a dozen tiny rents ripped open in the worn fabric. Her aim is good, but she takes her accomplishments on the target range with a grain of salt, because it's not reality. That is what a bullet _does_, yes: it tears a hole where there wasn't one, it makes its own path. But that is not _how_ it does it. A bullet doesn't just tear through flesh, it _bites_ through. It snarls and claws and forces open a new window to the world, reaching in and grabbing a fistful of shiny, _shiny_ blood….waving the red flag to announce to the world: _look, look. Another person proved mortal in the end_.

So the targets Riza Hawkeye is currently shooting at aren't all that realistic, really. It would help her already-impeccable talent if they were, but she doesn't exactly mind. Frankly, she knows that her imagination is more then enough to fill in the gaps.

* * *

"Where were you?"

Riza looks up, having just sat down at her desk. After almost an hour at the shooting range, her legs feel grateful for the seat. (Truthfully, she would have liked to spend more time out there, perfecting what is almost perfect, but her body doesn't have that kind of stamina just yet.)

"Sir?"

"Where were you just now, Lieutenant Hawkeye?"

"At the firing range, sir. I told you I was going before I left."

Roy Mustang nods, slowly, drumming his fingers restlessly against his own desk. "I see. I guess I didn't hear you before."

Riza knows he's lying.

She knows he saw her leave, knows he heard her tell him her destination. He'd nodded, just as slowly, but hadn't looked up. She knows as well that, truthfully, her colonel's just being over-cautious again, making sure that was _all_ she did, _all_ that happened to her. He's been like that, double-triple-quadruple checking, for over three months now.

Ever since that moment when she let her guard down. Ever since she forgot that the world is forever unfriendly. It was just for a few careless seconds, but it was enough.

As if beckoned by her thoughts, a sharp stab of pain bleeds through her chest for a second. Riza pauses to let it pass, careful as ever to keep her face impassive. If Roy saw her wincing…well…she'd rather not let that happen. His self-guilt about the incident is bad enough without her adding fuel to the fire.

"Lieutenant."

She looks up again. The colonel's eyes are still focused on her, hard and black and cold. It's been, she realizes suddenly, a long time since his expression's had any warmth to it.

"I don't think it's smart for you to stress yourself like that yet. You need to let your body recuperate fully before you return to the shooting range."

"With all due respect, sir, I disagree." Riza interrupts him calmly, because she won't allow him to treat her any different then before. She needs to prove to her colonel that she is still perfectly able of taking care of herself, and of him. She wants to reassure herself of her worth. "My aim still needs work, and I need to practice. And my injuries," she adds, almost as an afterthought, "are almost completely healed."

"Almost."

He stands, and Riza feels a spurt of annoyance at the man's utter stubbornness.

"'Almost' isn't good enough, Lieutenant," Colonel Mustang informs her coolly. "'Almost' still leaves plenty of room for problems. You need to take it easier until there's no 'almost', understand?"

She starts to protest; he interrupts her. "That's an order, Hawkeye."

Furiously, (he's treating her different then his other subordinates, treating her the way she doesn't want to be treated, acting as if she'll break the minute something remotely dangerous comes around. She wants to protect him, but it's as if he won't _let_ her!) Riza has no choice but to agree.

* * *

She ends up leaving early. She hates leaving when there's so much work that still needs to be done, but the colonel orders her home without a second thought.

Sometimes, Riza can honestly say she can't stand him.

It isn't that Roy doesn't care about her opinions; he's told her countless times that he trusts her judgment above all others. She knows that he takes to heart anything and everything she says (which in truth is more worrying then one would think).

The problem is that her colonel's imagination is far too well-developed for his own good. Men who have the blood of hundreds congealing on their hands tend to be practical, with good reason; thinking poetically about the chaos of war is enough to drive anyone insane. But Mustang….he's too much the thinker, spends too much time dwelling on the tragic differences between life and fantasy. He's the tragic hero in every sense of the phrase, left dangling by the threadbare strings of his psyche to cope alone with the grey areas of right and wrong. He's a fighter, sure, and he fights off the monsters of remembrance without rest, but there's only so long one can last in a never-ending battle. Riza is more then aware of this, and it's this knowledge that grinds against her skin, that forms an ever-present itch at the back of her mind.

He's always been scared that something would happen to her; it's become his nature to assume that everything he has will at some point be taken away. Her getting shot was the perfect catalyst for those fears—suddenly, it wasn't just a dream, an idle terror-thought, but reality. Riza remembers distinctly the look on his face when he saw the blood on her uniform….actually, seeing that mess of devastation and anger drain into his expression hurt worse then the damn _wound_ did.

(_failure, you let him down)_

Never mind that she survived. Never mind that she ended up making a recovery bordering on miraculous. Never mind that in any fairy tale, they would have already had their happy ending, the whole happy family, house-with-a-white-picket-fence deal.

After all, this isn't a fantasy. This is truth, and truth, Riza decides as she reaches her apartment, can be a real bitch.

* * *

Tiredly, she changes out of her uniform, and frees her hair from its bun. It's weird, how drained she feels, considering she's home nearly three hours earlier then usual, but hey…that's the price one pays for going and getting shot.

She goes to boil some water for tea, already planning on spending the rest of her evening with a cup of the warm liquid and a book. If the colonel isn't going to let her work full-time, she might as well enjoy the time off.

The tea kettle lets out a shrill whistle; she takes it off the burner and pours its contents into a cup, then returns to the living room and sits down. She picks up a book and spends the next few minutes trying to pretend she's actually reading it…but she's too frustrated right now to concentrate on someone else's daydreams. Her thoughts keep drifting to the office...to Roy…to her utter _uselessness_. What good is a first lieutenant who can't protect her commanding officer? The colonel…he doesn't even trust her to keep herself _alive_ anymore…

It's not as if she doesn't agree with him about almost-perfect not being good enough. Riza knows being perfect is impossible, but she's determined to get pretty damn near to it nevertheless. Almost-perfect means there is still a chance of messing up, and her mistakes might wind up killing the only man she loves.

It's just that…Roy would rather her out of harm's way, but she doesn't know how to be anything but the stern first lieutenant standing by his side. Dangerous or not, her life is helping and protecting her colonel, and she just can't see herself living any other way.

There's a sudden knock at the door; opening it reveals someone who, in retrospect, she shouldn't be so surprised to see.

"…Colonel?"

Roy frowns, just slightly. "When was the last time you called me that out of the office?"

"Sorry, I just…didn't expect to see you here." Riza steps aside to let him in; he glances around, seeing everything as if for the first time. It's been a while since he's been over.

There's a pause. Riza isn't sure how to break the silence between them (this awkward, uneasy silence that screams so loudly of things unsaid….this noiseless, jarring static that two months ago wasn't there), so she ends up heading for the kitchen.

"I was having some tea…the water should still be hot enough if you'd like a cup…?"

"Look, I'm sorry."

Startled, she turns around to face him. Roy's standing by the front door, coat still on and dark eyes staring at her, unreadable. "Roy…? I don't…"

His gaze, hard as ever, finds hers. "I know you're pissed off at how I've been treating you lately."

"…" Taken aback (Roy is many things, but someone who openly apologizes is not one of them), Riza folds her arms over her chest. "I'm not 'pissed off', I'm…"

The Flame Alchemist smiles humorlessly. "You're not happy about it."

"…No. I'm not." She lets out her breath in a loud rush of air. "I don't understand. I'm your first lieutenant, after all, and I'm supposed to—"

"Such a shame that's not _all_ you are to me," he points out sardonically. Riza's eyes flash.

"Roy, you promised me when we first started seeing each other that you wouldn't treat me any different at the office. Never mind that we could be found out if you start acting suspiciously, I personally don't want to be treated like some…_trophy wife."_ She purses her lips. "I promised to support you, remember?"

Roy sighs. "I know, but—"

"To _protect_ you."

"I _know_…"

"So, with _all_ due respect, your coddling me will not—"

"Well, excuse me, dammit!"

Riza stops mid-sentence, shocked. Her colonel begins to pace back and forth in front of her, roughly dragging his fingers through his hair. "Excuse me for being a bit freaked-out after you nearly _bled_ to death!"

"Roy…"

"You were _shot_, Riza. And three months later you want to act like you're perfectly fine?"

"No, what I want is for you to stop acting as if I'm about to break in two." Her answer is calm but cold, and Roy stares at her, incredulous.

"You want me to stop worrying? Because that's not about to happen."

She acknowledges his statement with a deflated sigh. "I know…I apologize for my failure—"

"What 'failure'?" Roy bursts out, "When have you _ever_ failed?"

"As your subordinate, it was my duty to ensure for your safety, and by walking into a potentially dangerous situation, I—"

Roy's suddenly close, suddenly _there_; he grabs her by the shoulders and pins her with his eyes. "Listen to me, Riza. How the hell where you supposed to know? It was a goddamn city street!"

"Insurgent attacks have been on the rise lately, and I didn't adequately plan for your protection…"

"You…dammit, Riza, you took a fucking _bullet_ for me! What the hell _else_ could you have done? And by the way," he adds angrily before she can speak, "I'm not exactly _happy_ that you did that at all! I don't know what the fuck you were thinking!"

"I was thinking that I didn't want you to die," she snaps back. The colonel glares at her.

"Oh, so I guess _you'd_ rather die instead?"

"If you want my honest opinion, then yes."

"That's not how it should be, damn it," he hisses. "Listen, when I was waiting in the hospital…fuck, you were out for three _days_, and I didn't know if you were ever going to…the whole time, I was going crazy because it was my fault—that bullet was meant for _me_, not you! It was—I wanted to….fuck, I don't know. I couldn't take it. And you did it on _purpose_, to save my _life_, right?" He laughs, although it comes out bitter and torn. "Fucking irony. If you'd died I wouldn't've had a life worth shit _anyway_, so your wonderful sacrifice would have been for fucking _nothing_…"

Roy honestly can't stop the words pouring from him. What he's saying is unfair, is selfish and one-sided, but it's something that he _has_ to say. These words have been sitting inside of him, _pushing_, for three months now…for three months they've been infecting, simmering, preparing to rage...

He's always known, on some depraved level, that Hawkeye would go to any length to keep him safe, but as long as it was only a vague possibility, he didn't let himself worry. An idiot's mistake.

He's never bothered to face what he should have known would lie in their future. He was a fool for thinking he could jump so damn _easily_ over the odds…for honestly believing he could give fate the finger and still have his miracle life—his implausible dream—with Riza.

That isn't how life works. That isn't how _his_ life works. And only a true halfwit would be so dependant on a woman…so attached….that he'd close his eyes to the horrible things she was willing to do for him, just because he 'needed' her.

Roy Mustang is the reason why Riza's chained herself to the military…he's the reason she's had to suffer so much. How repulsive…

With rough abandon his fingers dig into her shoulder blades, but he's so beside himself he doesn't even notice. "What made you think I wanted that? What made you think I _wanted_ you to be willing to die for me? That kind of sacrifice—I never asked—never meant…what gave you the idea that I'd rather live then die if I had to bury you first? Huh? Did some goddamn memo get lost-!"

"Roy!"

He stops, breathing hard, eyes defiantly stubborn. (As always, as is his mask.) Riza takes a deep breath; for once, anger's visible on her face, entwined in her expression.

"Don't act as if this was something I wanted to do, _sir_," she whispers violently. "Why would I want to die if I didn't have to? Don't you think I'd rather stay alive?" She pulls away from him. "It…it was something I had to do. As your lieutenant."

"_Only you're not just my lieutenant!"_

Roy grabs her again, but this time he's wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her into a desperate embrace. Riza closes her eyes against the inevitable, pleasurable shudder that always trickles through her when his skin touches hers.

"You're not just my lieutenant, you're…you're Riza, and you're _mine_, and…" Her colonel clutches at her, fiercely. "And I won't lose you, not now."

She's quiet a moment. Seeing him this open, this unguarded and raw, is something she will never be used to.

"I'm not leaving, Roy."

"You almost did." His voice isn't at all weepy or melodramatic; it's actually soft, smooth, and surprisingly tender. So is what he does next: resting his head on her shoulder and finding it to be a perfect fit. "I know you don't need protection. I know you don't want it. And what you _do_ want, I don't know if I can give. This…this goddamn world, this goddamn military…sometimes I can't decide if it's _worth_ it."

"What do you mean?" Riza's voice is sharp.

"If it…if us pretending that we can have some sort of normal relationship is worth it. I want it to be, but…all the danger it drags up, you don't deserve that."

She pauses a second, taking it in. Her body tenses as if she's about to pull away. "Is that how you see it? Pretending?"

"Not like that…Riza, you know what I mean. As long as Bradley's president instead of me—"

"Bradley won't be the president forever, Roy. I'm willing to keep things hidden while we have to, but we won't _always_ have to."

"Heh…you really do have a lot of faith in me, don't you?" he chuckles, rather weakly. "I just hope to hell I can satisfy it one of these days." A pause. "I hope you'll be satisfied with _me_ one day, too. With what we have."

_I already am, _she thinks, but the words never pass her lips. For all the things Roy does that annoy her, for all the fears he hides, for all the burdens she can't lift from him, she is satisfied. Their relationship is hardly perfect, she finds herself musing, and there's still plenty of room for devastating mistakes…but…

True perfection might be impossible to reach, but that doesn't mean Riza will stop trying to achieve it. She'll get as close as she can to protect Roy…to protect _them_, and what they have.

And she knows that if she told her colonel any of this, he'd smile, and ask her what was the use of reaching for such an impossible goal? But he wouldn't really mean it, because he had his unattainable dreams as well, and he wasn't about to give up on them. Wasn't that the nature of a dream, after all? To try for that which is at heart only foggy mystery?

No, he wouldn't mean it, and after a minute he'd say as much. Then he'd sigh, shake his head, and announce that he was glad to have such a stubborn first lieutenant. 'Even if something's impossible, she'll do it anyway!' he'd tease. 'Such dedication!'

But still, she'd hear the relief leaking into his voice, no matter how light he kept his tone, no matter how hard he pretended it wasn't there, because inside he'd be more grateful then he could ever put into words. Because inside he's always been afraid that those he cares about will give up on him and push him aside, writing him off as some sort of lost cause. Because Riza's staunch conviction that he is a _good person_ gives him hope, and despite his arrogant proclamations in public that he has everything under control, that hope is the only thing he has to keep himself alive. And just to hear that in his voice…to feel that warmth…

She is satisfied, perfection or no.

* * *

Riza wakes up early the next morning, with the sun streaming through the open blinds and Black Hayate scratching at the other side of the closed bedroom door. She is lying so close to Roy they're almost one person, and with her brain still half-coated in a sleepy haze, it's hard to figure out where she ends and he begins.

The thought crosses her mind that with his eyes closed and mask dropped, it's hard to remember how heavy his worries are upon his shoulders.

Roy stirs, opens his eyes and offers her a bleary smile. Even though they're both awake, neither one moves for a while; there's something extremely comforting about lying so close together, bare skin against bare skin.

But then Roy frowns, a shadow passing into his expression, and Riza knows he's staring at the fresh scar painted across her rib cage.

"Roy."

"This is my fault," he whispers, tracing its ugly convex shape with his fingertips. "My fault."

"No, it's not." His eyes are still filled with doubt, so she leans over to reassure him, her lips brushing against his cheek. His skin has the muted aftertaste of ash, but it's not an unpleasant sensation at all. Roy hates how the caustic smoke-smell clings to his clothes day in and day out, hates how he can never pull free from his past, but Riza…

Riza loves him for _everything_ that he is, weaknesses included. Roy is both regret and hope…he is buried fears and the ghosts that haunt him, careful precision and strong gazes towards the future.

The issues of the past week haven't been solved. They might never be. Her colonel will continue to dread what might happen, and his lieutenant will continue to push the value of his life over the value of hers.

That's certainly not how it would be in a perfect world. But that doesn't really matter, because what the two of them have is close enough.

* * *

* * *

AN-- Blegh! I hate this, I really do. It's a giant rambling mess. I think I'm just sick of it after fighting to write it for a month. Plus, I can't write fluff. I can READ fluff till my brain overloads, but can I WRITE it? Not exactly. So of course this ending just HAD to call for fluff. Argh. Anyone who says they're in complete control of their muses as they write is totally lying.

Well, anyway. Thanks to all who have reviewed...I'm flattered/thrilled/extremly glad that you did! More reviews would be appreciated, too. They make me happy, and considering I'm currently trying to whore myself out to collages via mounds of evil applications, I could use the boost! (Although, honestly, any and all bad reviews for this stupid sequal will be completly understood.)


	6. 25: so I'm crying

AN-- Now this one, I like. Not crazy about the title, and there are certain parts that aren't quite working for me, but over-all I'm satisfied. It's my first try on the events of you-know-who's funeral, so. 

* * *

* * *

**Funerals for the Dead, Funerals for the Living  
**_(25. 'So I'm crying') _

"_Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player  
__That struts and frets his hour upon the stage  
__And then is heard no more."  
_William Shakespeare, _Macbeth_

Four thousand crystal tears running down his soul, and he wants to close his eyes to the world and pretend. (Pretend this isn't happening; won't wishing make it so?) His throat feels dry, brittle, sharp…somewhere along the way he must have broken a glass bottle apart, and kissed the jagged shards.

But he's ok with that. It's as it should be, after all. The proper suffering for the proper occasion. His heart, though….that organ's giving him some trouble. It should be frozen over and dead and in front of him, they're lowering that _other_ dead thing into the ground, putrefying into motionless grey ash. It should be an organ turned vestigial, a useless lump of decay. The fresh bruise on the face of the earth rises as they fill in the grave with o-so-black dirt; he knows it's only natural, only decent, for his heart to need burying as well.

But it doesn't.

It's still there, thumping away inside of him, alive and well. He can't stand it. His best friend's smiles have just been covered high with mud, and yet he continues to breathe and function as if it were any other day.

That isn't _right_. They're burying forever a source of light and hope, and he doesn't even have the decency to cry.

* * *

"You idiot."

Talking to a gravestone is foolish. Talking to a gravestone and expecting it to talk back borders on committable.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

He knows it's wrong to insult the dead, but he does it anyway. Let them add it to his growing list of condemnations.

"You're such an _idiot_. How could you go like that? You're the one with the family, dammit."

He breathes in deeply. The air around him is sharp and saccharine, falsely calm. He comes away tasting bitter sweetness at the back of his sandpaper throat.

A cold wind blows; he barely feels it. He looks down at the smooth, grey slab of an ending sticking up in front of him, and feels a wave of anger so intense, it hurts to try and reel it in. Suddenly, he wants to smash that stone, to yank it out and crack it and blow its knife-edged fragments to the wind.

_(hide the evidence, it'll be fine, he can't be dead if no one can tell he's buried!)_

"Dammit. I hate you, you know. For what you did to your wife, your daughter. You selfish prick, leaving them when they still need you. Leaving _me_ when you promised to be my support. What the hell—"

"Colonel."

He doesn't turn around. He doesn't _want_ to. If he does, if he sees her, he'll feel too warm, too fulfilled. Now is not a time for life and love, now is a time for death and hate. Now is when he should want to join his best friend, watching eternity, not his lieutenant, wrapped in her arms.

_(not that he would ever join Hughes again either way; he's not destined for the same place as the lieutenant colonel.)_

"Sir. You forgot your coat."

And, god, her voice is so soft and so gentle and so filling, and he resists it because it isn't _right_. Who is he to seek her blessed company? He should be mourning, mourning Hughes and life and that brackish stain languishing in the phone booth.

"Roy."

Oh, god, he wants (doesn't want) to turn around and dissolve into her comfort. His fingers clench on the stone, and he _hurts_…

"Roy, please. Don't."

"Don't do what, Lieutenant?" and even if his voice is quiet, is gravel and rock, they both know he's about to give in.

His lieutenant is silent for a moment; he can almost hear her frowning.

"Don't punish yourself for this."

_(he should be sadder colder mourning harder his heart should be brick and ice and tough cement…)_

"Don't stop feeling because of this."

_(he needs to be empty, needs to be aching, for Hughes for Hughes for Hughes…)_

"He wouldn't want that."

_(needs to be hollow, needs to be weaker, in this situation, happiness is a sin...)_

"Roy."

He breaks.

Her hand is small and comforting on his shoulder; desperately he turns to her, longing for her warmth, her comforting words…he should keep that void inside of him, but he's weak as only a human can be.

He buries himself in her arms, in her soothing heat. He needs her, needs her as he's never needed anyone in his life…

He knows it's wrong to give in, but he's never been a saint.

* * *


	7. 9: before we know each other

AN--Um. A shorter one, this time, and a slightly different style, but I'm satisfied with it. Mostly.

Oh, just to mention--there'll be larger-then-usual delays in updating from now on. School'll be starting soon, and between the ap classes I wormed my way into and collage applications, my free time'll be dipping down to zero soon.

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* * *

**Life, Unspoken  
**(_9. Before we know each other.) _

"_Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth."--_Oscar Wilde

And this is the irony of it all: she has been by his side for so many years, and yet sometimes Riza feels as if she doesn't know her colonel at all.

_What are you really thinking?_ she wants to ask him when he stares out at the horizon, at nothing. _What's really going through your mind?_

But she doesn't bother to give voice to these questions, because she knows he'll never answer. There are mysteries lying behind those dark eyes that she will never understand.

* * *

Riza's eyes, Roy muses sometimes (when he is drunk, usually, or well on his way to becoming drunk; normally he would never trust himself to dwell on her, for fear that he might find himself trapped in his tortured longing), are the oddest shade, the most noticeable blend of red and brown entwined. Such a stunning blaze of color….

His lieutenant hides her thoughts behind an amber mask, but as lovely as it is, Roy can't help but wish he knew how to remove it.

* * *

They walk home together from work, the distance until they have to split up and head in different directions measured in the length of their silence. They are both aware that if life was perfect, they'd have the words to explain—everything, and nothing, and what lies in between.

Only life isn't perfect. The world is made of dirt and fire, of chemical equations—a decidedly unromantic mix.

* * *

The two of them pause when they come to that point where their directions differ. The quiet between them doesn't fade.

Roy wishes he had the strength to convey what he wants to…he knows that there is still so much more that needs to be said. Only, the sheer magnitude of that space they haven't yet breeched is in itself a daunting challenge, and Roy's shoulders are too sore from the weight of the earth upon them to take it up just yet.

But that will change, he decides now. One day.

* * *

In the end, nothing new is said. This is not some book or movie, after all. That hesitation, that pause before they separate, is there every day—they both realize nothing will come of it, but still they hold out the chance. Just in case.

(To lose hope is to lose altogether, you see, and neither of them are quitters.)

Today's opportunity to acknowledge the unspoken truths held between them fades. Those hidden feelings will have to stay hidden, for now.

Still….

As he turns to go, Roy gives Hawkeye a quick nod, saying everything there is to be said without once opening his mouth.

After a moment, Hawkeye nods back.


	8. 16: reaching voice and unreachable

AN- Hello again. This one's an idea I got in the middle of writing another one-shot (that I haven't finished quite yet) and the concept interested me, so I scribbled it down. Would've had it up earlier if silly old ffdotnet hadn't been down.

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* * *

**Blindness Self-imposed  
**_(16. Reaching voice and unreachable with a voice)_

"_Hope in reality is the worst of all evils, because it prolongs the torment of man."—_Nietzsche

"I loved you. Before, I mean."

Roy is sitting up in bed, staring at her strangely, eyes glinting brightly with illness, and Riza has a sudden urge to throw something. Either that, or have a full-blown, toddleresque temper-tantrum, complete with screaming and thrashing of limbs. After all, she's been taking care of him for over three weeks now, and even her strong will is breaking.

And yet…she deserves it, she can't help but think.

"I did. I still do, actually, but it's not a new thing. I've loved you for years."

Riza's hands tighten on the pill jar they're clutching. Three weeks. Three weeks of tending to the general after his confrontation with Pride, after she was _delayed_ and _slow_ and _failed_ to follow through properly with the plan. Three long, miserable weeks of cleaning his wounds and fighting infection and trying to keep the man she loves alive for one more hour…just _one_ fucking more. And now, as if that hell wasn't hard enough to handle, Roy's fever-induced hallucinations and delirious mumblings have to be about _her_.

About _them_.

"I did. I _do_. I'm not lying, I love—"

Hawkeye pushes him down gently. "Sir, please, you have to lie down."

The colonel—_general_, she has to remind herself, because his title still seems so strange and new—shakes his head, almost frantically. "No. Please, just...listen…"

"Lie down, sir. You're not strong enough to sit up yet."

Riza knows he can't really understand her—that he can't really understand _himself_ right now. She remembers all-too-clearly what the doctor consulted right after the incident had told her: 'As long as his fever remains this high, he'll hallucinate.' She understands that her general is rambling out of sickness, not truth.

"Nngh…Riza, I love you…"

But it's still so fucking _hard_ to hear him say that, and he's been saying it a lot.

"Please, sir. Just rest, it's ok."

It's not ok, actually. It really isn't ok at all. Hearing Roy say what she's _dreamt_ of him saying for years—feels more like millennia—and not really meaning it…god…it's like pouring battery acid into an open wound.

"He'll hallucinate," the doctor, grim and blunt, had informed her. "As long as the infection is there, it will cause a high fever, and the fever will cause delusions. He won't make much sense, probably…although…"

Riza grits her teeth. She is _not_ going to think about the _although_, not now. Not when everything from the political climate to Roy's chances of survival is so cloudy and uncertain…

"Riza...I…god, I…I _love_ you…"

Damn. Damn! _Finally_, she gets the top off the pill bottle, and shakes out a couple of small, white pills.

"Here, General. Try and swallow these; they'll help you fall asleep."

She's glad beyond words when Roy finally closes his eyes. Exhausted, she collapses into a chair beside his bed, mentally preparing herself for another all-night vigil.

"_I love you, Riza."_

_He didn't mean it. He didn't know what he was saying. _

"_Although, it's been said that hallucinations brought on by a high fever can sometimes cause a person to blurt out things they otherwise wouldn't say…their deepest, darkest secrets, if you will."_

_He didn't mean it. He couldn't have!_

Her stomach twists. She suddenly hates the doctor for holding out that branch of hope, because it's such a flimsy one. She knows the general doesn't have any real feelings for her, has _gotten used to_ the idea…but….now she can't help but wonder…

No. Riza shakes her head. _No_. She will not hope for this. She can't. Refusing to believe is so much better, in the long run, then believing and being let down.

* * *

"Rizaa…"

Hawkeye jerks herself awake the second her general's cry reaches her ears. His voice is so fragile…so weak…

"Riza…nngh….Rizaaa…"

Riza. Not Hawkeye, not First Lieutenant. She tries not to let any hope simmer in her chest as she leans over him. "I'm here, sir."

"Riza—Riza…" He looks up at her, wild-eyed and openly trembling (from his fever or from fear, she isn't sure). The bed sheets are soaked with sweat; his unruly black hair is matted down to his skull. Riza feels a sharp pang of…of some emotion that is guilt and dread and desperation all rolled carelessly into one as she looks down at his shivering form.

She's bluntly reminded that this is all her fault.

"Riza." Roy is panting from the force of both his sickness and his dreams. "Riza—I dreamt…you were gone, and—you were gone, I couldn't…."

Riza brings a gentle hand to the side of his face, forcing herself to concentrate on how sick he is rather then how smooth his skin feels. "It's ok, General. I'm here."

"I…Riza…I love you." He's trying to sit up again; Riza has to hold him down. "I do. Please, just—you weren't there, you were gone…"

God…her heart is cracking and her mind is numb; she knows she has to calm him down, knows it's not good for him to be this agitated, this stressed out. She silently curses the fever and the injuries it sprang from and the homunculus who gave those wounds to him. The relatively fresh bandages wrapped around what's left of his eye are already blood-soaked; his expression is so heartbreaking Riza can barely stand to look at it.

But she does, because she loves him, and because she can't allow herself to look away from her general.

(She can't allow herself to believe him, either.)

"Rizaa—I—you have…have to be here….for me…"

Riza's heart is thudding wildly, her chest feels like it's on fire; her mind screams at her to be logical but it's as if she can't control her own body, as if she's moving in a dream, (a dream, or a nightmare, or maybe a bit of both, but whatever it is it _can't_ be real) and before she knows it she's leaning down—_this is foolish why am I doing this?_—and her lips are brushing his and—god—(she's reached a point from which she can never return)—he's kissing back…

Her general tastes nothing like she thought he would, but how could she ever imagine how natural the flavorings of ash and blood and life combined are upon him? How could she ever envision such an awestruck feeling?

She tries to tell herself she shouldn't put her faith in this, but…Roy's kissing back….(a part of her sneers, he's _delirious_, what does he know about what he's doing?)…and Riza feels so warm and full and more content then she ever has before…

Roy's skin is burning, giving off warmth that bleeds through her fingertips, and she isn't sure if that's from his high temperature or the fire that coils within him, always. Kissing him is a sensation she's never felt the likes of…

But then it ends.

The kiss ends, of course, and Riza is left half-bent over her general, feeling foolish and gullible, and very addicted.

Roy, calmer now, dozes back off to sleep. His lieutenant stays awake watching him the rest of the night, but he doesn't call her name out again. By the time a few hours have passed, and she is once again in control of her traitorous body, raw embarrassment is already lodged deeply in the pit of her stomach. Having these hours to think everything over clearly has left the situation black-and-white: she was an idiot for hoping, an idiot for kissing him, and an idiot for letting feelings buried so deeply come out to run amuck.

It's the biggest contradiction—she felt so alive when she was kissing him, but now, as if all her life was pulled from her breath to his, she is nothing but impossibly drained.

_It was an irrational mistake. He didn't know what he was doing. He was delirious. _

She does not dare to hope.

* * *

Roy's fever breaks early the next morning. By late afternoon he's lucid enough to be aware of his surroundings and able to carry on an admittedly stilted conversation. His speech, though disoriented and sluggish, is perfectly understandable. He heals quite quickly from then on.

He doesn't remember anything he said or did during his illness. Riza doesn't remind him.

* * *


	9. 6 point 1: mismatched happy couple

AN-- The world is ending. Why? Because I wrote fluff, and not only fluff, but...nonangsty fluff! An entire one-shot's worth of fluff! (Whether or not that fluff is any GOOD, is another matter altogether, of course...)

I'll tell you though, it felt weird to write; I'm so much more used to ansgt/wangst/roybeingunhappyness. Go ahead and pick it apart in your reviews, I have no idea what I'm doing here as it is. 

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**What it Means to be Content  
**(_6. Mismatched happy couple)_

"_Then seek not, sweet, the "If" and "Why"  
I love you now until I die.  
For I must love because I live  
And life in me is what you give."  
_--Christopher Brennan, _Because She Would Ask Me Why I Loved Her _

He opens his eyes to blindingly bright sunlight and winces. Yawning, he considers closing the blinds, but decides that the window is simply too far away for him to bother. The bed underneath him is just too comfortable to even consider getting up from.

It's not very often that Roy can honestly say he's relaxed and content, but waking up in his first lieutenant's bed has never failed to leave him stress-free, if only for a little while. Being given a break from the myriad concerns in his life is one reason in a list of many why he loves Riza so much.

Speaking of Riza….

The Flame Alchemist turns to find the bed empty of her presence; he knows she's probably just out walking Black Hayate, but he still feels a small sinking in the pit of his stomach. He can't help it…Hawkeye is like a drug, really; he craves her voice and the touch of her skin the way a heroin junky longs for his next fix.

It's her eyes that do it. Those oceans of amber vapors…brown lines of fog twisting themselves around a shade of red that's almost nightmare-inducing. (He hates himself for comparing her eye color to that of the Ishbalans, because shoving her image up against a hellish, fiery memory of smoke feels purely sacrilegious.)

* * *

Roy is lounging around in her kitchen, musing on whether or not he feels like eating anything and why her apartment feels so damn much like _home_, when he notices the sound of the front door being opened. He grins to himself when he hears her voice.

"Black Hayate, sit."

"You just can't resist giving orders, huh?" Roy calls out, amused. There's a slight pause, and then Riza's cool reply, flavored with just a hint of a smile: "Good morning. I'm glad you finally decided to wake up."

"Why, Lieutenant Hawkeye, I'm insulted." He stands up as she comes into the room, trying desperately to keep his expression grave. "I work hard all week and I'm not allowed to sleep in?"

"That line of reasoning would have far more weight if you actually _worked_ at all, _sir_," she informs him blithely; Roy laughs and throws up his hands.

"Alright, alright, you win. Like always." He sighs dramatically. "Just once, would it kill you to lose an argument and prove to me that you're _not_ perfect?"

"Hmm." As always, Riza ignores his attempts at flirting. He finds it kinda ironic that she's the one woman who isn't swayed at all—well, not a _lot_, anyway—by his infamous smirk.

Stepping forward, he slides his arms around her waist, burying his nose in the cascading golden silk of her hair. He feels her stiffen slightly in surprise for just a second and grins again.

"It's nice, you with your hair down. You should wear it like this more often."

"No. It goes against the military dress code. And," she continues, talking right over his grumbled opinion of said military dress code, "it would only serve as yet another distraction to you. You spend half your working hours staring out the window or sleeping, you certainly don't need _another_ reason to slack off."

"Me? Slack off? Lieutenant, these are very serious accusations you're making." Roy turns her around in his arms so that she's facing him, and suddenly his voice has taken on another demeanor entirely. Suddenly, it's not merely a light-hearted, teasing tone seeping through his words, but pure seduction, smooth and silky. His lips graze the side of her neck, and he feels Riza shiver ever-so-slightly.

Roy can't help but wonder if she realizes how incredibly _hot_ that kind of reaction is from her. Hell, it seems like _everything_ this woman does turns him on, to be perfectly honest. He's never been so attracted, both mentally and physically, to a woman before, and the intensity of his feelings for her is enough to wrench his breath away. This kind of raw, rough-edged love is like a dream….like falling off a cliff, only never quite reaching the ground.

All of a sudden, simply by looking at her, he's filled with that kind of fierce passion that refuses to be ignored. He kisses her neck again, then brings his head upwards and presses hard against her lips. Riza is kissing back, just as firm and in-control as he is, and the fact that she hasn't turned into some simpering, giggling annoyance the way his old dates used to just makes him admire her all the more.

"It's far too serious a charge to go unnoticed, in fact," he continues, devious smirk in place. "Certain…actions will have to be taken."

"Oh really," she murmurs, reaching up to run a hand through his messy hair.

"Yeah. Really." His grip tightens around her waist, pulling her as close to him as possible (not to mention getting more aroused with every second). He looks into her steadfast gaze, stares directly into her eyes, and drowns once and for all in their swirling labyrinth.

Roy knows that he has found perfection, that he has found hope and love and happiness. He knows he can walk forward now—the demons of his past won't ever be able to ensnare him as long as she's there with him. He has Riza, and Riza is all he needs, and the rest of the world could crumble away but he wouldn't care, not as long as she stood by him while it fell.

This….this is what it means to be content. This is what it means to feel alive. Like a phoenix risen from the ashes (the ashes of Ishbal, the ashes that burst from his hands to proclaim him a devil), he has broken through the barriers around him to find a type of heaven no ideology could ever describe.

Even when hell surrounds you, Roy realizes, there is hope….

* * *

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AN-- ...Ok. So I admit it. it's sap. (Gawd, me writing pure romantic goo is so strange, you have no idea.) 

...Here's hoping they had heroin in the fma world, otherwise that one line made no sense...

reviews make me a happy person.


	10. 21: repentance, confession

AN--This is a drabble--it's under 500 words. Because it's so short, I'm planning on posting again in a few days, a lot sooner then normal...by Tuesday, I'd think. I'd get it done monday, but there's Jewish holidays and I'd rather not try and get my creative juices flowing while I'm fasting slash starving.

And we're back to the angst...

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****

* * *

**No Time for Apologies when the Crime's on Repeat  
**_(21. Repentance/Confession)_

"_It is forbidden to kill; therefore all murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets."—_Voltaire

He was a fool.

He had snapped and burned and seen life smolder away…had smelled the sweetish scent of human ash clogging the air around him, had tasted the thick, putrid tang of that type of grease born when a body bursts into flames. He'd felt it as it settled on his lips.

Roy thought bitterly of all the scientific logic to this hell—such a paradox, right? He remembered vaguely sitting in an overheated classroom, listening to a balding man explain the logic behind mass murder; the hours were spent learning how one would know a burning carcass by the amount of human fat in the air. The lesson was gruesome, yes, but it was still just a bunch of emotionless words; Roy had sat in the back of the room and idly wondered what it felt like to have the lifeblood of someone else on your hands. His teacher's words had not bothered him, because in the end they were only noise.

Idiot.

He'd been given a _warning_, and all he'd done was roll his eyes and decide that nothing was ever _that bad_. It was good to fight for one's country, and murder wasn't murder in war, so surely he'd end up just fine.

…Wouldn't he?

It was a shame that he'd learned too late the true nature of guilt—it clumps on and squeezes no matter what the justification for its presence. (And what a justification he had! Those medals adorning his uniform—they'd been earned on the backs of children destroyed!)

Now he knew how it felt to kill someone, knew the taste and smell of a darkly grinning death, and wasn't it _just too bad_ that he didn't like the icy truth of it?

He'd explained it all to Riza once, when the two of them were alone in his dimly lit office. For a second, it'd felt almost cleansing to be able to speak of such horrors out loud. He'd kept those words locked inside himself to ferment in secret for so long…

Riza had listened gravely, then said quietly that she was used to seeing people falling in crumpled heaps, bullet holes providing unwanted ventilation. Her dark eyes were unreadable, her expression stone. Roy lowered his head.

"I guess we're both hopeless cases then," he'd mumbled.

Riza was quiet. After everything she'd done, she'd still pull the trigger for him without hesitation; only later, maybe, would she find the time to remark on lessons not learned.

Roy didn't say anything else; Riza sighed and went back to cleaning her gun.

* * *

* * *

AN-- Hopefully that ending isn't too abrupt. It's interesting...of all the things about Roy and Riza's relationship that tug at the heart strings, the 'needed evil' of it really gets to me. Riza would do anything for Roy, even kill--and Roy would do the same for her. For people who've been through so much, the willingness to do so must take a level of devotion unheard off.

Or I may just be making it up as I go along. Review either way!


	11. 18: conversation

AN-- Eh, sorry this is like two days overdue...life got in the way. (Doncha just hate when that happens?)

Yet again, this is Roy!angst..(I'll do some other character!angst instead next, i promise!)...plus a lighter RoyRiza. and Hughes. Because I haven't written him in a while and I miss it. The title's been done before, but I couldn't come up with anything else.

ALSO: there are mentions of God in this, in a rather negative manner. It's not meant to offend, and they aren't exactly MY views, per se, but the views of Roy as I can see them.

Quote's at the end this time around.

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* * *

**After the End of the World  
**_(18. Conversation)_

Roy leans back and stares up at the sky. The sun is setting, colors dripping around themselves into neon-bright chaos.

"Nice view, huh?"

Mustang glances at the man beside him. Hughes is watching the peaceful explosion overhead too, and the colors glint off the lenses of his glasses.

"The sky, I mean," the bespectacled man muses. "It's a really nice view."

Roy shrugs, uncaringly.

(_Only that's not true because he really **does** care, he knows what it's like to be able to concentrate on such unimportant events as a sunset and he wants to be able to share his friend's enthusiasm for it—but—Ishbal was three months ago, and he doesn't remember how…)_

Hughes eyes him, sharply. For the past three months he's been both savior and friend, and he's had his hands full keeping Roy Mustang together and functioning. He can still recall how carefree the alchemist used to be, and regrets that all he has left is a pale imitation, an attempt by a devastated man to act normal when he has no idea these days what normal is.

(_But Hughes is an optimist, he counts his blessings, and so he's glad Roy's at least **trying** now.)_

"Well? Isn't it a nice view?" Maes presses. It's a non-issue, really, and the eyes of this new Roy he still isn't used to flash with annoyance.

(_Hughes doesn't care. He has to keep bugging Mustang, because otherwise the Flame Alchemist will sink back into that dull lethargy that embraced him the first month after war's end. Maes would rather him angry then blank-eyed and staring.)_

"I don't know," comes the answer at last, short and abrupt and an obvious attempt at calm. "I guess."

"You guess," Hughes repeats. Roy's face darkens.

"Yeah. I guess. What the hell does it matter?"

"I dunno. It doesn't, really." Hughes sighs. His buddy's face has gone back to its empty grandeur.

(_If only he knew…Roy **wants** to care, but the sky over Ishbal was always clogged with smoke, and he's forgotten what it looks like.)_

"Seriously, though. All those colors…hell of a nice sight."

"If you take all those colors and mix 'em together yourself, all you get is muddy brown gunk," Roy points out sardonically. "God can keep it pretty 'cause he's all-friggen-perfect, right? But us lowly humans aren't worthy enough to be able to do that. Figures. All we are is ugly."

Hughes is silent. Lately Roy's had a habit of twisting everything around to make the world seem that much more bitter and cruel.

"Doesn't it figure, though? The great Almighty can't even give us _that_. He has to throw his goddamn sunsets up and gloat about how fucking _perfect_ he is. The rest of us are ants—we run around blindly, like idiots, just trying not to get _stepped_ on. Apparently it's too much to ask for him to come down and actually help us out once in a while."

Maes frowns. "Roy…"

"I know, I know." Mustang straightens up, grinning sarcastically at nothing. "God gives people free will so we're the ones to blame..."

He's quiet a moment. Hughes knows what memories he's reliving and hurries to change the subject.

"So, Mister Lieutenant Colonel, heard Hawkeye's getting put under your jurisdiction."

"Apparently."

"Lucky for you, haha!" he continues cheerfully, drawing on the kind of information a natural-born eavesdropper tends to find out. "You two know each other from way back, right? From before the war? Weren't you an alchemy student of her father's?"

"Mmm." Roy doesn't seem interested in the conversation, which—considering _who_ exactly they're talking about—is all the more worrisome. Hughes presses on doggedly nonetheless.

"She's really pretty, those eyes are incredible." He winks. "I'm a soon-to-be-married man, but you're not—gonna make a move or what?"

Mustang's face is unreadable. "Doubt it."

"What!" His best friend looks at him in surprise. "Why _not?_! She's good-looking and you like her. Don't think I haven't noticed the way you look at her when she's not watching." Roy grimaces but doesn't answer. "It's head-over-heels for you, I can tell. So why not? Huh?"

"It's against regulation—"

"Oh, please, like that's ever stopped you before. Come on, Roy, I want the _real_ reason, please and thank you."

Roy hesitates. He leans forward and stares at the ground, fingers twitching unconsciously.

(_and whenever someone yells out Roy stiffens and jerks, as if expecting to be shot from behind; he shudders when it rains because the slick wetness against his skin feels too much like blood. Hughes doesn't comment on it, because he isn't sure if his friend even realizes what he's doing.)_

"_Well_?"

"….She could die," he offers after a moment. "She could die because of me."

"…" Hughes looks at him. "...We're all going to die some day, Roy."

"Thank 'God'." Maes glares at him and he gives a halfhearted smirk. "Relax…I'm kidding." He falls silent again for a spare second or two. Then:

"….I don't want to hurt her." It comes out as a sigh, a soft, mournful admission.

"You won't—"

"Stop it, Hughes," Roy snaps. "Stop being so damn naïve all the time. Don't you remember? Everything in Ishbal was ruined. It's like that goddamn sky…the minute we got our hands on it, it rotted out." His voice drops down low. "…I'll ruin her if I get too close."

Hughes shakes his head with a slight hint of desperation. He's losing his best friend and he knows it—if only he could find a way to pull Roy back from the abyss!

"But we're not _in_ Ishbal anymore, Roy. The war is over."

Roy looks at him expressionlessly. "Is it?"

Hughes hesitates. He doesn't know what to say.

After a minute of winter-ice silence, the Flame Alchemist nods, as if given the expected answer. He tilts his head back up towards the sky and watches it for a long time, waiting quietly for a hint of brown.

"_Rarely do great beauty and great virtue dwell together._"--Petrarch, _De Remedies_

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AN-- I know there's a lack of setting in this one...that was done kinda sorta on purpose. It can be anywhere, really, as long as it's outside. 

Thanks to any and all who reviewed so far! I'm always floored by how nice you guys are, heh. Really, thanks a lot. (And keep reviewing!)

Just as a reminder, I do take requests, whether for a theme or story line. It might take me a while 'cause of school, but as long as it's Royai and able to be done in a oneshot/drabble, I'll give it a whirl.


	12. 94: from yesterday

AN- Yes, I am alive! It's been what, a month and a half since I posted? Oops. Well, now that college apps are done--or WILL be done as soon as I can track down my guidance counselor--I should have more time for HOPEFULLY more frequent updates.

This was done for **LILI**, who wanted a version of the moment when Riza showed her back to Roy. Let me tell you, it was a tricky thing to write; it felt like I was just recopying the manga at one point! (There are few things sadder in life then having to scrap an idea because it's not going anywhere when you've already got a bunch of pages written, and I musta done that twice with this.) Overall though, it came out a lot better then I thought it was going to as I was writing it. The beginning could be a bit better, but it does get pretty decent later on, I think. (It's a LONG one too...)**

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**

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**The Things That Hold You Back  
**(_97. from yesterday)  
__(Requestfic for LILI)_

"_This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."—Winston Churchill_

Riza's memory is impressive; it allows her to envision even what she'd rather forget. She has yet to decide whether this is a blessing or a curse…all she knows is that her past lurks in the back of her mind and begs to be recounted.

Of all her memories, the ones that are the foggiest always involve her father. It sounds strange, considering how many years she spent living underneath his roof, but life is never as clear-cut as the fairy tales would have one believe. The truth is, Riza _doesn't_ remember her father—she only remembers what he never was.

He never was a good husband to his wife, who suffered long and died young. He never was a good role model to his daughter, who learned early on to keep her emotions undiscoverable.

(_If only because_ _Mr. Hawkeye would never notice them if they **were** released to the open air--a thought that used to sting like fire.)_

Riza remembers the respect her father was handed for being a famous alchemist, and she remembers wondering why being able to use transmutation circles was enough to earn anything at all. She remembers growing alarmed—secretly, of course—at how _obsessive_ he became as the years went by…remembers how he would lock himself in the study Riza was forbidden to enter, pouring over dusty textbooks crammed with ancient symbols for _days_ on end. It got to the point where the only times she would ever really see him were when he would come out for meals (and even then, his preferred method of communication was a grunt). He murmured alchemic laws under his breath the way some people murmur prayers, with dark and holy reverence for his nonliving god.

She watched as the color bled from his hair, leaving it a dull grey that matched perfectly his ever-bloodshot eyes. She watched also as the only father figure she had ever known willingly separated himself from his family for the sake of some strange magic, for _alchemy_…for that most unusual and demanding of mistresses.

(_For a while, she remembers, she hated the hypocritical mockery the mysterious science presented to her eyes. Then she realized it wasn't alchemy she hated, but her father.)_

As she recalls it, it was soon after she realized her mounting dislike of the elder Hawkeye that she began sneaking into his filthy study, looking over the blurred arrays scratched onto the walls with interest. They made no sense to her, a non-alchemist, but fascinated (and disturbed) her nonetheless. She wasn't—isn't—sure why, but they did.

Especially the ones for fire. She remembers being most intrigued by those.

Still, for the most part her life was monotonous, even growing up as she did in that house of secrets and dust. Her mother was dead, her father lost in his research—all Riza had left were distant thoughts of The Future, a hazy period she wasn't sure would ever come. She thought she might join the military one day like the grandfather she wasn't allowed to see had, thought maybe she'd find her true calling there. Her father hated those soldiers clad in blue--that was _why_ she wasn't allowed to see her grandfather, after all—but Riza had long ago ruled out being a housewife, and becoming a soldier seemed like the only thing left for her to do.

Plus, as she had discovered mostly on her own, Riza was extremely good with guns.

But that was the future, and the future was too far away to consider, really, so what Riza remembers most about those years is the boredom. For a while, it felt like there would never be anything else.

But there was. Because as easily as she can recall the deadly tedium, she can recall when it died, abruptly scurrying away without warning.

She can recall quite clearly the day she met Roy.

Riza was surprised when her father decided to take an apprentice…he'd been asked many times by parents hoping to exploit some talent in their children, but had always refused. At first, she'd assumed that the lack of money with which to support their crumbling estate had finally driven him into becoming a teacher out of necessity. Maybe, she hoped, he'd realized at last that alchemy didn't pay the bills.

(_Then one night she'd gone up to tell her father's new student that supper was ready, pausing in his doorway unnoticed. She heard him mumbling some obscure tenant of equivalent exchange to himself as he bent down to dump out his suitcase, and she'd finally understood.)_

Whatever the reason for his being there, Roy settled himself into life at his teacher's house quite quickly. Riza remembers being completely impartial to him at first—or at least, she remembers deciding she _should_ be. Having any sort of feelings for a man so much like her father was too risky, too unwise. She didn't want to end up like her mother, after all.

(_And Roy realized the similarity between master and apprentice himself; it was one of the reasons why he turned so pale when he first saw the markings on her back. Perhaps he was afraid he was capable of the same thing….)_

So Riza did her best to ignore the small trembling in her stomach whenever he was near, because it wasn't smart and it wasn't right. She told herself she was being foolish: Roy was polite, sure, he was respectful and diligent…but really, he was nothing special.

_(And she remembers the first time she ever used that falsehood on herself—she had made the mistake of looking directly into his dark eyes and seeing a spark of something so fervent it startled her. She's never stopped wishing she could forget the way her body reacted, how it subconsciously yearned for what Roy subconsciously offered. It would have made life **so much easier** if she really did believe her lies, but her memories are set in stone, and she's never been able to forget on cue.)_

* * *

Time continued.

Riza watched as her father ran his student ragged, perhaps in an attempt to test Roy's ability to learn those complicated symbols etched out in tattered journals. Roy hung on, doggedly determined—Riza was forced to lie to herself again, and act as if she didn't find his stamina enthralling. She saw the young alchemist grow more and more frustrated with his teacher's refusal to teach him fire alchemy's secrets.

And then one day Riza's father caught her in his study, tracing her fingers along an array he'd drawn; instead of flaring up in anger as she'd expected, he merely sighed.

"Riza," he said softly, "…I'm going to need your help."

* * *

Things began to change.

Roy, fed up, learned what he could on his own and left for the military to put it to some use. Mr. Hawkeye returned to his solitary existence, his lips pressed together in disgust over his student's rebellion. ('Dirty military dog,' he grunted, 'what good will he come to there?')

Riza was silent, said nothing about it.

(_Some distant part of her ached fiercely, but her ability to put up with things always has been as strong as her ability to remember them.)_

Months passed. Her father was growing older and weaker with every tick of the clock. Eventually, even _he_ understood that; the day he figured it out was the day he went to make good on his daughter's promised help.

It's a memory Riza doesn't like having, but it does give her _some_ solace: despite the furious pain that scorched her skin as Mr. Hawkeye transcribed his final array to her bare flesh, she didn't cry out once.

* * *

Then: Roy returned, her father died, life as Riza had always known it seemed completely off-center and wrong. At the graveyard, mourning the secrets the elder Hawkeye had—apparently—taken to his grave as much as the man himself, Roy announced that he was leaving for war soon, for Ishbal, to help quench some rebellion raging in that backwater place. He smiled at the strange name, said that he was looking forward to helping but as a regular private probably wouldn't be able to do much. As a state alchemist, he mused, he could accomplish so much more, but right now he simply didn't know enough to become one.

Riza listened quietly. She was still remembering the soft thrill she'd felt, seeing him again.

"Don't die," was what she finally said.

Roy, full of youthful idealism and a desire to change the world, laughed uneasily and promised her he wouldn't. "You shouldn't say stuff like that," he teased, "it's bad luck. You know I'll come back…don't I always?"

Riza nodded. Her mind made itself up.

"Your dream…can I trust my back to it?"

* * *

Roy's hands were ice against her naked skin. She pretended to be disgruntled at the chilly temperature lurking in the room….actually, she did quite a good job of it, of pretending there was nothing else on her mind.

(_but pretending is pretending is pretending, an act and nothing more—and was it so horrible that she closed her eyes and **pretended** Roy's tenderness was out of more then just respect for the tattoo across her back?)_

Carefully, gently:

(_Why so careful, she wanted to scream, she wasn't weak and she wouldn't fall apart. She bit her lip to keep from yelling and the next instant couldn't understand why she'd considered crying out in the first place.)_

Roy traced the curving lines, eyes focused deeply in concentration. His naturally-pale face was even whiter then normal.

"I can't believe…he used you like this…"

Riza hid a tight frown. His reaction from when she'd first disrobed still stuck in her mind…she'd been surprised at his horror because she'd never thought to be horrified herself. (Maybe Roy had a point when he grumbled that her hiding emotions couldn't be healthy.) Her father's last request hadn't struck her as weird…..it just _was_. _Life_ just was.

(_With Roy it **never** 'just was', and Riza remembers how bitterly she used to resent the feeling he injected into her dulled-out world.)_

"I can't believe-…you were his _daughter_!"

"It's only a tattoo," she replied by rout. "It was the safest way for his secrets to—"

"Screw that!" Roy's fingers were still on her shoulder blades, and he turned her around roughly. She clutched her shirt tighter to her chest in surprise and stared at him, restlessly. "He was a goddamn famous alchemist, he had to realize how many people would kill for what he knew. He dragged you into something you had no business being in-!"

"I am not so weak," Riza interrupted, her voice a hundred deadly knives slashing at him furiously, "that I won't be able to handle whatever danger having this tattoo brings. Although I can't imagine anyone else ever figuring its location out…I'm not planning on showing anyone but you, are _you_ planning on spreading the word?"

Roy winced, and she recalls wondering if the fact that he would be the Only One to see her secrets was part of the reason why. Did he—did _she_?—understand what it meant? "No…of course I'm not gonna. And I didn't mean to….to call you weak or anything—"

"Good," she replied coolly, and ignored the itch to pull out her newly-bought pistol and show him just how defenseless she was. "I'm glad."

"But, Riza…" He bit his lip, awkward and unsure. "I don't…..you're, y'know…you're you, and I wouldn't want you getting caught up in shit that might…hurt you. Or something." There was a pause, and apparently Roy felt too foolish ending on that sweetly sentimental note, because he continued in a rush: "Besides, it had to hurt like hell, getting that damn thing. I tried getting a small one this one time when I was wasted and nearly died."

Another pause.

"Not because I couldn't take the pain or anything! It was just…uh…"

She almost smiled. Stubborn man…stubborn, silly, sensational man…

"Do you still want to see the tattoo?"

Roy hesitated for a second. Then he looked directly into her eyes.

(_It was only the second time that'd ever happened, and just like before Riza felt herself drowning in something she still doesn't comprehend._)

"Riza…" he said slowly, "I know you don't get why, but I'm…sorry this happened to you. And I'm gonna use that array for…you won't regret showing it to me. I promise."

This time she couldn't hide her grin. "You're awfully serious about this. That's quite the responsibility."

Roy's dark eyes didn't waver and his tone didn't change. He just stood there, looking not at her back and not at her array but…at _her_…

"I know. I promise. Hold me to it, you'll see." He motioned to her back. "I'll change everything with this. With you."

Riza wasn't sure what to say, so for lack of anything else to do she turned around again. Roy reached out and stroked—no, _touched_, touched her because the array was there and that was it, that was the only reason why!—her skin, tenderly.

(_Tenderly? Why **tenderly**? Even in her memories Riza doesn't understand that man._)

His fingers trembled slightly against her, and she wondered—wonders—if this felt as personal for him as it did for her. Was he longing to touch more of her? Was she longing to let him? Her feelings were so undone…

The problem with remembering one's past is that it's a very one-sided view, and Riza will never know what Roy did or didn't feel.

* * *

Afterwards, her future-colonel was still quite adamant about Mr. Hawkeye's transgressions.

"He never should have done that to you."

"He was an alchemist, his research came first."

"Doesn't that bother you!?"

Riza eyed him. "Whether it bothered me or not isn't the point. That's just how he was. Feeling unhappy over it now would be a waste of energy."

Roy shook his head. "Maybe, but…" His voice lowered, sounding ragged and hoarse. "I don't ever want to be so obsessed that I forget what else there is," he whispered.

"What else is there?"

(_In looking back she's glad she asked the question when she did, before Ishbal and the deep, dead tiredness that seeped into his bones…before his voice became saturated with blood and he forgot what it was to have hope._)

"….." A nervous laugh from a man who would never show his unease. "There's you."

Riza doesn't remember (pretending is pretending is…) how she reacted to that.

* * *

A train whistle rang out, shrilling finality. Riza turned to look at the soldier by her side one last time. "Remember, you promised you'll come back. You'll change the world, and you'll come back."

Roy nodded. "I know. I will." He looked up and over, past the train, towards the foggy horizon. "This thing in Ishbal'll wrap up pretty quickly, according to everyone else, so…" He grinned, hiding with skill whatever worry he might have had.

(_Or not had; knowing Roy as well as she does it's entirely possible that he really had no fear, dangling there on the edge of hell reborn_.)

"So make sure you're still there for me to come back to, ok?"

Even now, even all these years later, the sound of a train whistle still brings to Riza's mind a golden recollection: how warm she felt, standing there on the platform with his gaze embracing hers.

* * *

Hawkeye went out one morning, and by late afternoon the rumors had already reached her ears.

Ishbal was no minor rebellion. Ishbal was a nightmare.

Soldiers were murdering, being murdered, destroying and looting and going insane. "No one is going to come out of that mess alive," people whispered. "Those soldiers are nothing but dust." Public opinion, never very supportive of the military to begin with, was firmly set: anyone who got stuck going to fight there now was someone to pity and morn for, because they definitely wouldn't be coming home in one piece, if they came home at all. And anyone who _volunteered_…well…to each his own, of course, but to willingly join up _now_ would be stupid, if not downright insane. What fool would deliberately send themselves to that disarray?

Riza joined the military within the week.

(_The next time they met Roy grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, openly horrified and his voice a croak, demanding to know **why** she was there, **what** she was thinking, if she was **sure** her common sense hadn't been stolen since the last time they'd talked. She'd answered, calmly, that he had a promise to fulfill, and she was going to make sure he fulfilled it.)_

* * *

War, and what she did as part of it, is not something Riza allows herself to dwell on. She remembers, because she cannot forget, but that doesn't mean she has to relive every rust-layered instance; usually she keeps those recollections buried deep in some part of her that is isolated with lock and key.

It's the same thing with the end of the war. She doesn't ever think about her last few days in Ishbal, nor how the scars running jaggedly across her ruined tattoo came to be. If asked, she replies only that for a while, life reverted back to the basics: it just _was_, and that was that. No sense ruminating on it, no sense looking for some kind of meaning that was never there at all.

She has such a strong will, but even Riza Hawkeye has felt her defenses come crashing down: that last week there, that last week under the blistering sun, surrounded by the stench of rotting, burning corpses…

How could she live with the cause of that foul odor on her back? Roy might blame himself for what he did, but he'd never have been able to do it if not for her. She does not and never will regret showing him the array, but at that instant she couldn't stomach her father's gritty legacy. She couldn't stand to have his marks across her skin. She couldn't.

_("Burn it," she hissed to Roy, and her voice smelled of ash.)_

* * *

And what happened in the desert has been written in a hundred history books, has been discussed and debated almost _ad nauseam_. The fighting that took place in that land of drifting sands was in reality no different from the fighting that took place in any other of man's wars. One temper tantrum does not necessarily differ from another, and Riza knows it is only a matter of time before some other conflict steps up to outdo Ishbal and proclaim itself king of tragedy, king of death and betrayal.

Unless.

Unless Roy fulfills his long-ago promise and changes the world. All these years later, she follows him. One day, she is certain, he'll succeed, and where she'll go from there has yet to become clear. Her life is his, so she's not sure what will happen when and if circumstances dictate they be separated. There's no real point in worrying over it, Riza's decided—who could even guess at how her story will end? One cannot know the future before it comes.

But looking backwards at the past isn't exactly a healthy pastime either, so the lieutenant spends most of her life living firmly in the present…the here and now, which is so dry and guaranteed. To her, hindsight is wasted effort, a useless talent that serves only to help spread self-pity. Better to take action while there's still action to be taken then to live with your head mired in what was, after all. She's entirely certain about this.

(_And yet sometimes she can't help but close her eyes and remember that room, and that moment, and Roy's fingers drifting lightly across her skin….) 

* * *

_

* * *

AN-- So that's that. I hope it meets LILI's expectations! It's actually my first request, so...yah. Anything else anyone wants to ask for, I'm always up for it. (It may just take me a few months to get it up here! )


	13. 23: Someone I want to protect

AN- Not overly thrilled bout this one. I don't HATE it or anything, but it isn't really anything special. I wasn't even going to do this theme at first, because all I could think of was doing it from Riza's pov and that's been done a thousand times, but it finally hit me that I could throw Roy's pov in there too. Heh.

I dunno. I think it came out pretty well, but in all honesty my attention's been elsewhere these days.

Let me know what you think of the title? I'm not super-satisfied with it, so any suggestions would be considered... (I finally went with what it is now because necessary is what both Roy and Riza are to each other, so it kinda connects the two parts...maybe. I think.**  
**

* * *

* * *

**Through Necessary Eyes  
**_(23. Someone I want to protect)_

"_I just had to let you know  
_'_Cause I don't always let it show  
__You give me needed room to grow  
__And I just had to tell you so_

_You fill me up, you're in my veins  
__A look could take my breath away  
__And all these things, you give away  
__Sometimes I take for granted…"_

It hurts to notice the small things when one is in love with Roy Mustang, Riza has decided. It hurts to watch his features twitch into a brutal mockery of nonchalance whenever someone mentions the name _Hughes_. It hurts to see the thin, milky tendrils of memory that cling to his shoulders. It hurts to know that _he is suffering, he is suffering—_and there is nothing she can do but watch.

He won't let her do anything else.

The colonel goes around with an empty smirk plastered onto his features, and the world assumes his cocky attitude is his only one. (They turn their heads when they see him crumble.) Riza looks on in silence as his presumed persona consumes his real one, and wonders if the Roy Mustang she became enthralled by still exists.

It hurts, but she won't ever let him realize that. She can't. If Roy were to think he was hurting her, he'd pull away even more then he already does; despite his beliefs to the contrary, there are some things even Riza Hawkeye can't handle, and losing her colonel is one of them. He is all she has, all she needs—the only man she could ever embrace. He is nothing if not an enigma: a man who desires the future but won't forget the past.

He suffers sometimes, because he can't let go. Hawkeye always makes sure she is there to ease the pain. She does it without thought, without hesitation, because there isn't…there never will be…any other option. It's been so many years since she met him that she's forgotten what it is to be alone.

She sees him staring at her every so often; it's a good thing she has the ability to sculpt her facial expressions into an iron mask, because otherwise he'd see her struggling with hope, and longing for him. Obviously she knows that the colonel's doing nothing more when he glances her way then making sure she's working, but hope doesn't listen to reason and refuses to fade away.

In all honesty: Riza has never believed in true love. She has never considered it to be anything more or less then a fairy tale creation mistaken for reality. (The only problem here is that her colonel has been sorely testing that idea.) She doesn't trust in 'soul mates', or waste her time dreaming about who hers might be—she likes to consider herself immune to that foolishness.

(But she _does_ dream about Roy, and he's the closest thing to her soul mate that there could ever be.)

Riza never did understand what her colonel meant when he spoke about her _choice_ to follow him. What choice? There has only ever been one path she could take, and there's only one future she can put her trust in. The future Roy promises is the only one she'll reach out for. He is the only man she'll ever love.

She wonders sometimes if he's noticed.

* * *

There are a few things one must always keep in mind when dealing with Roy Mustang. The main idea is this: he isn't understandable, at least not by mortal minds. It's a strange curse to have, but he doesn't mind it, not really. Who wants to be so obvious that the world can read them like an open book? If only immortal beings can figure him out, then that's fine—Riza is, after all, a goddess in her own right, and he doesn't object to the thought that only she can comprehend what he says and does.

She's the only one he _has_ to have, so as long as she can grasp him….then screw all those who fall by the wayside. He doesn't care about them. Only Riza.

(He is grateful beyond measure for Havoc and the others, and still can't think about Maes without wincing, but his first lieutenant is the only one he would inevitably follow to the grave. He would erode away without her…desperate desire is a sickness for which there will never be a cure.)

When it comes down to it, he's surprised even Hawkeye—even brilliant, unequaled Hawkeye—bothers to put up with him the way she does. Roy knows as well as anyone else that he can be quite the frustrating son of a bitch…he is stone, he is rock covered with a shiny glass veneer, and he shuts everyone out.

(Except for Hughes, but look where that got him.)

He acts as if he's got everything under control, but he prays in secret to a god he doesn't believe in for things he doesn't think he deserves. What good qualities he has, Roy feels, are more then outweighed by the bad, and yet….and yet he has only to turn around to see his first lieutenant there, ever-watching, ever-waiting.

He'd like to find a way to thank her for all that she does for him, but he's yet to figure out what gift there could be that properly honors perfection.

Roy watches her, sometimes…all the time, really, without even being aware of it when it happens. Hawkeye walks into the room and instantly his eyes are drawn to her, following her as she heads to her desk. She sits down, and he's hit with a sudden burst of _need_; ultimately there's nothing for the colonel to do but swallow imperceptibly and cross his legs. His subordinate never seems to notice his discomfort—Roy's at the _very_ least grateful for that.

And yes, he knows he shouldn't watch her, knows he has_ absolutely no business_ wanting to see her sans uniform (sans everything but bare skin, actually), but he can't pull his eyes away. The curve of her cheek fascinates him; her otherworldly stare bores into him and tunnels into his soul without her ever realizing it.

There are times—take last week in the office, for example—when he has to fight with ever fiber in his being to keep from grabbing Hawkeye and kissing her…he respects her too much to ever actually _do_ that, but he can't help but fantasize. God, how much he'd love to be able to plunge into her, to loose himself in her warmth and strong embrace.

His lieutenant has invaded his senses—she is all he can see and hear and think about. Roy often wakes up in the middle of the night with his heart pounding and his body tight, wrapped up in hot waves of longing and desire. Riza is nothing if not a temptress to him: even in his dreams, he can't ever get close enough to hold her.

Usually the colonel will be snapped out of his musings by someone coming in to talk to him, or a pile of urgent documents being shoved under his nose; last week it was the shrill blaring of the phone that brought him out of it, abruptly. Roy attempted to listen (hard to do when he couldn't get the image of Riza Hawkeye naked out of his head), and to laugh where he was supposed to, to try and placate the higher-up on the other end.

(Roy's laugh is fake even when he doesn't mean it to be, and he can't comprehend why no one's noticed yet. His devil-may-care image is nothing more then a well-played act, and he's sick of being stuck in a role that isn't his…

There are times, though, when he humors himself and thinks that maybe Riza understands.)

The voice droned on and on in his ear, and his thoughts wandered off. _Riza_, he reflected, _is so stern, so flawless…hell, even her hair is never out of place.  
_(He wants to run his fingers through that hair, wants to get half-drunk off its tantalizing smell.)

It's almost unreal…sometimes Roy wonders if he isn't just dreaming, if Riza isn't just some pretty illusion. It's possible, after all—what other explanation could there be for someone as infallible as she is? Mustang can't ever imagine her breaking down, not for a minute. That incident with Lust was…was some twisted nightmare, of course, because how could _Riza Hawkeye_ ever fall apart? She's the one that keeps _him_ from falling! She's someone strong—someone steady—someone for Roy to depend on when everything else is rotting away. There are times when he's drowning, slipping, losing ground…and always he reaches towards Riza, desperately, because she's all he has…

Put plain and simply: Hawkeye keeps him sane.

He wonders sometimes if she's noticed.

"_It's just like poetry inside  
__To hear you breathing by my side  
__Like I'm in heaven and I've died  
__So glad you're with me for this ride_

_I see your face to start my day  
__Makes all my bad dreams go away  
__And all the stupid games we play  
__Wouldn't have it any other way…"  
__--Fill Me Up_ by Stained

* * *

* * *

AN- I love that song...total RoyRiza song if you ask me. Anyways...

I can't decide if Roy was ic in this or not. One part of me says he's more practical then he came out here, but another part says HE'D be the more romantic of the two, if anything. As it is, he's defently the more intense of the pair (well, Riza's intense too, but in a different way), hence him calling her a goddess and perfect and all. To his eyes I think he really would see her that way.

Those're just my two cents, though--feel free to add yours! Review!

OH...and the incident with Lust mentioned here is the infamous scene in the manga where Riza :**spoiler**: thinks Roy bought it and freaks out. Just so you know.

**(EDIT--12/13/06**: made some changes based on the wonderful **Arantzain's** suggestions. I'm flattered she took the time to disect the piece as much as she did, and honestly I think it's a lot better for her ideas.)


	14. 45: awakening

AN—Once again not the most amazing thing, but for what it is I'm happy. Written/posted more hurriedly then usual in order to be able to post SOMETHING; it's been, what, a month and a half since my last update? Part of that was because of my muse dying on me (this wasn't even what I was going to originally post—I was planning on writing something based on an idea from **Arantzain**, but decided to push that back till next time because it just REFUSED to work right), but it's mainly because, as mentioned in my profile, I'm in the process of switching from regular computer to laptop, and it's been—still IS, but at least now I can type—a real hassle.

The first two sections of this were an early start to **LILI**'s challenge, but obviously I scrapped it. Since it was half-done already, I was able to come back and finish it off for a different theme with relative ease, which is why I wrote this instead of what I was going to. **Arantzain**'s idea is next—if I can get used to this dang keyboard!

Spoilers for chapters 58-60, but nothing huge; if you haven't read those then you might have some trouble understanding this. Maybe not, though, not quite sure myself.

Implied sex, but nothing too graphic.

* * *

* * *

**Infinity Born  
**_(45. Awakening)_

_"To endure is greater than to dare; to tire out hostile fortune; to be daunted by no difficulty; to keep heart when all have lost it; to go through intrigue spotless; and to forgo even ambition when the end is gained--who can say this is not greatness . . . "  
--_William Makepeace Thackeray, _The Virginians_

She sees him again, and it's like something out of a dream.

His familiar features are lost in the narrow confines of the rifle scope, but she'd recognize that windswept mop of black hair anywhere. Her breath catches in her throat, something that hasn't happened to her once in the almost three months she's been out here. Her fingers clench just slightly. Her eyes narrow.

_Roy Mustang._

Then she snaps out of it, because she's a soldier too, and she has a job to do….or rather, she has to shoot the Ishbalan lunging for Mustang and his friend because _Roy_ has a job to do, and he has to be able to do it.

She's been wondering if he ever did make the ranks of the State Alchemists…it seems that he has. She remembers his determined idealism and frowns to herself, watching his friend drag him out of view. Is it possible that his dreams are still intact?

(They had better be—she wouldn't be out here if it wasn't for his goals.)

Smoke trickles into her nose. A small encampment of Ishbalans has recently been discovered, and what's left of them and their hideout is still ablaze; the State Alchemists can thank themselves for the victory.

(Was it a victory?)

If Roy really has become one of them, then he was probably involved too. The private furrows her browns. Somehow, she can't see the polite, respectful student of a million lifetimes ago using his alchemy to kill people. But then again, why would he be out here in the first place if not to fight…? It only makes sense that he would take part in the slaughter…

She would call him a murderer, but then she'd be ignoring the blood on her own hands, and she never _has_ been a hypocrite.

* * *

The nameless sniper (her current moniker—it suits her fine, goes well with the detached dullness she's felt these past few weeks. Lately she's been wondering if maybe she isn't really just a ghost, a bodiless entity formed of wind and fog, drifting from place to place searching for some way out) settles down by the tamed roar of a small cooking fire, wearily. She aches deeply in places she never knew existed, and can't help but wonder if even death would be enough to cure her wounds.

"Hey…"

She looks up and over, and sees Roy's friend—Hughes is his name, isn't it?—grinning at her. He's saying something about how she saved his life, but the sniper isn't listening. She's watching the familiar face of the man behind Hughes jump from cautious curiosity to shocked confusion. Something almost like fear trickles into his eyes, and she feels a dark smear of satisfaction.

So he does recognize her after all that's happened.

"_Riza_-?!"

Hawkeye gets to her feet, calmly, but inside she knows that everything is about to change.

* * *

Roy sits down next to her, awkwardly, his hair being grabbed at by nightfall's strong winds. He's shivering slightly in the cool air; nights in the desert are chilly, something no one ever really gets used to.

(You don't get used to the day's blazing heat, and you don't get used to the night's frigid cold. Instead you wait for something that makes sense, and ultimately the longing will rip you apart.)

Riza knows that no one ever actually _survives_ a war. Some are shot dead and others burned, and some are just left to drive themselves insane, but in the end the person they were when they started never comes back alive. The only question, she's decided, is what _will_ step off the train platform at the long-awaited end. What kind of creatures will Ishbal leave behind?

She waits patiently as Mustang positions himself slightly crooked, so that he's not directly facing the fire in front of them. She pretends not to notice, but it's hard to ignore the way he winces whenever its flickering light drifts over his face.

(The Flame Alchemist doesn't like to be reminded of what he's here for.)

"…Why did you join the military, Riza?"

She's in the process of cleaning her rifle, and doesn't answer right away. "…I remembered your dream, how you wanted to aid people. I thought I could help."

He laughs, bitterly. His sarcastic nature is new, and Hawkeye can't say she likes it very much. "My dream? It was the first thing to die in this fucked-up place."

"You shouldn't say that." She raises the scope to her eye, aims it at some distance target to make sure everything checks out. "You shouldn't give up."

"…." He looks away for a second. "What if it's not my choice? What if trying to hope out here is just a waste of time?"

"Then you waste your time." Hawkeye can feel Roy's dark eyes boring into her now but ignores them, not raising her own from her gun. "If it seems foolish to have dreams out here then you act like you are a fool. It's better then giving up on everything and becoming nothing—_no one_."

(Isn't this bizarre—a ghost giving advice to a desperate man.)

"So what are you hoping for?" Roy asks with a slight smile. "I find it hard to believe that you could ever be _foolish_, but if you _are_ still hoping for something, then what is it?"

Hawkeye bites back a smirk of her own. Is he _testing_ her? Apparently some of the old Roy Mustang she knew still exists, if he can still evaluate someone so carefully. (He's always been like that—there was always some ulterior motive hidden in every question and comment he made. He was always holding up everything and everyone to the light, checking to see how he could warp matters to his advantage. It used to drive her crazy, but now it's become strangely reassuring to know that side of him still hasn't died.)

"I'm hoping that my father's student won't put what he learned to waste," is all she says when she finally replies. "I'm hoping he does what he set out to do."

The student in question grins weakly. "He doesn't actually have a choice, since his teacher's daughter won't leave him alone long enough to consider doing anything else. She's so damn determined, he's gonna _have_ to do what he decided to, don't you think?"

(It's weird, to have this kind of friendly bantering in _Ishbal_, of all places. Maybe they're still human if they haven't forgotten how to tease each other.)

"You make it sound like she _wants_ to play bodyguard all the time," Hawkeye retorts coyly.

"She doesn't _have_ to, no one ever _asked_ her to."

"But if she doesn't, then the man she's watching out for will end up wandering in front of a tank. Or he'll fall asleep on guard duty and get faced with a firing squad. Or he'll spend all his time reading some of those alchemy books I'm sure he brought with him and forget to eat."

"Hah. Your confidence in this man is staggering," Roy says dryly. Then his voice changes. "Seriously, though," he murmurs, "you shouldn't have come out here."

_This place will ruin you,_ is what Riza knows he wants to say, so for answer she comments softly, "There are some things….some people….worth risking ruin for."

Roy looks startled. "That…that doesn't…how do you know that? How do you know when it's worth it?" he demands.

"You just do."

"That's not a very _practical_ answer, Hawkeye. _How_ do you know?"

_How do you know you'll survive this? How do you know I'm worth risking everything for?_

"I'm afraid I can't give you a _practical_ answer, _sir_," she says with a touch of irritation. "You'll have to simply trust that I understand how to make the correct decisions in cases like this."

"_Trust_ you—!?"

"Yes. Trust me. Like I believe you used to," Riza snaps. The Flame Alchemist winces.

"I….I trust _you_, Riza. But…you're asking me to trust that it's a good thing you're out here! You're asking me to trust that you _belong_ here!"

"No, I'm asking you to trust that I have my reason for being here."

"Well, maybe your reason doesn't want you here in the first place."

"Maybe he has no say in the matter."

"Maybe he _should_ have some say! It's because of him that you're here, so maybe he should have some influence—"

"It was because of his influence," she interrupts firmly, "that I'm here. But it was my decision to be influenced by him and join the military, not his. It was my choice. I don't regret it. He will have to accept that."

Roy closes his eyes as if in pain, as if he is suffering in some distant area of the soul that hasn't yet a name. "And what if he can't….?"

"…He can. He's strong," she says quietly. "He's stronger then he thinks he is. He deserves the support."

A weary chuckle. "Even though he's probably going to end up drifting aimlessly in front of a tank before all this ends?"

Riza shakes her head, amused. "Yes, surprising as it might sound to him. Even with that."

A moment goes by; the wind's mysterious, unearthly voice mutters bits of nothing behind her.

Then Roy leans in, and Hawkeye feels a sudden thrill dart through her. What is he doing? All of a sudden he's so near…

"That's a very interesting point of view, Private…" he whispers smoothly, his mouth barely an inch away from her ear. His breath is warm on her skin: she shudders, almost without realizing it, caught up in this surprise. "Very interesting. But…I still can't understand how you decided I was worth all this. It just doesn't make any sense to me…"

Riza stares into his eyes, now only milliseconds from her own. The wind is still speaking softly to itself behind them—no, all around them—_inside_ them—they're in the center of a war zone, so why does this all seem so _right_? This strange, harsh land has suddenly become the most beautiful, the most divine paradise…

And it _is_ beautiful here, she decides distractedly after a moment…or at least, it must have been, once. Fire and metal, human ego: these parasites have long since leaked through the cracks, and now Ishbal is as stained as any other place touched by man. But even mankind, which favors itself unbeatable, cannot conquer _everything_….and even now, even _here_, Riza realizes with a start—though in the next instant she realizes she's known it all along—there is beauty…

There is beauty in the untamable wilderness around them. For all their tents and fires, for all their destruction, the soldiers are still swallowed up by the awesome _size_ of the place. Their greatest disasters won't stand the test of time; the darkness of the nighttime desert swallows up even the strongest of their intrusive lights. There is splendor here that will never be ruined. There is a chance for everything to heal.

The wind, too—the wind carries its own splendor, and Riza is shocked for a moment to notice the out-of-place sweetness it's harboring now. Where are the scents of smoke and rotted flesh it usually picks up? Where is this new life coming from?

But then she notices just how dark Roy's eyes are, just how deep. They are still so close…

This new life—new _hope_—comes from _them_. _They_ will mend what for the moment seems broken beyond repair.

(Hawkeye is sure of this with a finality that seems to come from entirely out of no where, which is hardly her style at all. But what need is there for explanation in this place? What words could possibly be heard over the ethereal song of the desert?)

"I don't understand it…"

Mustang reaches a gentle hand to her cheek and leaves it there; small tingles continue to spark at her skin wherever he touches. She leans even nearer to him with a fervidair that hides the true calm of all of this. "To me it seems so foolish…"

"Trusting people?" she breathes. "It's foolish?"

He laughs again, quietly as to not break this strange spell, but this time it's a richer sound then the sardonic tones he used before. "Very, when you consider who you're trusting."

Hawkeye reaches up and lowers his hand from her face, slowly, her gaze never wavering. Every time Roy exhales she can feel his warm breath against the side of her neck….he's all but buried his head against her shoulder. His arms are wrapping around her—she clutches at him out of need, out of want, out of everything that makes him what to Riza he always is.

"I thought you said I was never foolish." Her grip is just as strong in this embrace. Roy, she thinks, has to learn that he is not the only one trying to keep his head above the water. He isn't in this alone.

"You're right…" Mustang murmurs against her. "But this is really very unwise of you." He lowers his head slightly to drop kisses along her collar bone. "So is this…so is us doing what we're doing now…"

"Yes…" Hawkeye can't disagree with that. She once swore she'd stay away from all things impulsive, but in the here and now she can't seem to find the will. "It is…"

Firm hands tug at the buttons on her uniform, tugging the jacket off and throwing it to the side. She pulls her shirt off herself, letting his touch stroke at bare skin.

There is a hooded, craving gaze in Roy's eyes that makes her shiver again, but this time it's only partially out of lust. The way he's _looking_ at her—like she is some sort of goddess, some strangely perfect being. Riza doesn't relish the idea of being put up on a pedestal…she's no divine being. She's more then that: she's Roy Mustang's protector, a position with greater challenges and a _far_ greater reward then running the heavens could even _try_ to produce. Surely she's got the harder, more satisfying mission when compared to the gods—

But now his mouth is on hers, warm and steady, and her thoughts scatter. Her own fingers are rapidly undoing the buttons on his pants, pulling the fabric down…Roy fumbles with the clasps on her bra, taking longer then really should be necessary to remove it out of impatience and duress. Afterwards he pushes her back against the sand, and the slightest moan escapes her lips.

"Roy….we shouldn't…not _here_…" she tries to protest, halfheartedly, as his fingers knead patterns into her suddenly-sensitive skin.

But where, then? Not in her tent, where even the smallest cry could give them away. Not in his, either; the Flame Alchemist shares a tent with the Crimson, someone Riza has frankly _no_ desire to meet. There isn't any safe haven that she can think of.

(Some part of her knows there never will be, and the willingness to ignore the danger has suddenly become an intricate part of who she's determined to be.)

Roy hasn't stopped to worry about it, and when the last item of clothing joins the messy pile behind them and he presses himself harder against her, she gasps and forgets too.

"So foolish…" His voice is so soft she nearly mistakes it for the wind. "This isn't smart at all…"

Riza inhales a deep, shuddery breath. "Roy—"

A gunshot, from somewhere far past them. The yells that follow it are hidden in the distance, but still the spell fades off. Maybe that's a good thing, she ponders dully, still lying there in the sand. This _is_ a war zone, after all. What right does passion have in war?

(What she does not consider is that this is far more then any spur-of-the-moment lust. This is _love_, but that word is a curse in Ishbal, so she'll never give it life.)

Mustang sits up, blinking. Obviously he'd gotten as carried away as his sniper. Sheepishly he shakes the grit out of her clothes and hands them to her; they dress silently, in the dark, since the fire has long since gone out. Muttering to himself about the uselessness of a flame alchemist who can't even keep a blasted cooking fire going, he prods a bit at the leftovers, and in a few minutes there are flames again. Then he turns to Riza.

"Erm…I'm sorry. I didn't mean for…." Roy looks embarrassed. "I'm sorry."

"It's ok." She attempts to shake out the sand grains buried in her hair, gives it up as a lost cause, and turns to him. "It's fine."

"But it's not! It's—"

"Roy," she interrupts. "It's _fine_."

(And it really _is_ fine, because a ghost could never feel what she's feeling right now, so she must be alive after all. A bittersweet realization: does needing him so badly make her very naive or simply very weak?)

Her alchemist stands up, glancing out at the horizon as he dusts himself off. "…Come on. Before some sentry catches us." Riza nods silently and gets to her feet as well.

She walks a step or two behind him on the way back to camp. He's her soldier, after all, and she'll guard his back for as long as she has breath in her lungs.

"I'm sorry," he calls over his shoulder, "I kept you up all night talking."

"Among other things."

"Was that a joke, Hawkeye? Shocking."

Riza purses her lips and tells herself she's annoyed, though of course she really isn't, and Roy laughs. He's already gotten used to having her presence there behind him; he's already started to take it for granted, be that a good thing or bad.

And he's not alone: his sniper's already begun to take it for granted that he'll always be there for her to follow. She's never been more certain that she'll walk in his path till eternity erupts.

(Even if it's hell he ends up leading her to. Even then.)

* * *

It's the last time they openly talk about her being there, about her staying so firmly by his side. It's the last time Roy protests in fear of what might come. It's the last time in Ishbal they ever embrace, but to Riza that's ok.

She can wait.

* * *

* * *

AN- I wish my muse understood that not EVERY Royai idea needs sex in it! Seriously, they were supposed to KISS...somehow it turned into full-on groping and nudity. :_sigh_:...

(By the way...where has all the Roy/Riza fanfiction been these days? Talk about slim pickings! Me thinks that now that mostly everyone's seen the anime, the fandom's starting to wander off...which is a shame, as the manga is SO much better where Royai hinting is concerned!)

Enjoy, and leave a review if you please.


	15. 27: Dependency

AN-- And I'm back! A few months since my last post, nothing major! ; (I remember when I was able to update things every week!)

Anyways, this is **Arantzain's** idea _finally_ seeing the light of day. **There are major spoilers! **(Actually, the whole thing's basically one big spoiler...) If you haven't AT LEAST read up through chapters 38-40 in the manga, not only will this ruin the surprise but...it won't make any sense, either. Sorry about that; I usually try to make sure my fics make sense for both manga and anime followers, but considering the nature of the request there wasn't much of a way to do that this time around. One other thing: a few of the dialouge lines come straight from the manga, and some of those were changed slightly so that they would make sense in the new context. The other major change I made was to take out Havoc's telling Roy and Riza that he's paralized--in the manga that comes right after Roy (isanutterassholeand) yells at Riza, but it'd be too much drama to condense into one 7-page one-shot, so I left it out.

Honestly not sure WHAT to think of this one. It's...weird...not sure if that's a good thing or not!

* * *

* * *

**As Long As (You Never Give Up)**  
_(27. Dependency)_

'_"Strength is tenderness' I sang.  
For what and for who  
Do you continue to fight for now?"  
--Life goes on _by GSD

It only took Roy three days, give or take, to realize that he could not_ stand_ the hospital. At all.

It was day five now, and his feelings about the place hadn't exactly changed. What was to like? The place smelled like sick people and disinfectant, the food made his cooking look edible, and the only nurses he'd seen so far were all old, dumpy, and/or unavailable. Not to mention that he couldn't freaking _stand up_.

Quite frankly, this sucked.

Grumpily, Roy attempted to roll over, only to feel his side erupting in a spasm of red-hot-and-furious pain. A few choice four letter words ran through his head, but he held them in out of consideration for the man in the bed next to his. Second Lieutenant Havoc was still sleeping, and Roy knew that if he woke him up this late at night he'd never hear the end of it.

Bastard. He could at least _try_ to be a little more grateful; if it wasn't for Roy's quick thinking his second lieutenant would be six feet under by now. Then again, it was _because_ of Roy that his first lieutenant had almost…

Shit.

The colonel gave up on trying to move around, and yawned. Damn, if it wasn't for this freaking _hole_ in his side he'd be fast asleep by now…rgh, being injured like this sucked. Although, considering that the wounds hurting him the most right now were the burns he'd given himself, maybe he didn't have the right to complain.

Didn't mean he was going to stop bitching about it, though. What else was there to do in this boring-ass place but whine?

(Not to mention, if he stopped to dwell on other matters right now he knew exactly where his thoughts would turn, and he desperately wanted to avoid _that_…)

Footsteps caught his attention, and he eyed the closed door on the other side of the room. About time Hawkeye came back; she'd left to go use the bathroom, but that'd been ten minutes ago already. It wasn't anything he'd ever admit to, but Roy couldn't help but feel the_ slightest_ bit insecure without his lieutenant by his side. He'd gotten so used to her being there, considering she always _was_ there…reliable to a fault, too…to a…

_Roy skids to a stop as he reaches the room entrance and his eyes widen in shock in terror in full-out disbelief. (He is caught in this insanity and suffocating—isn't it about time for him to wake up?) His hands are covered in Havoc's blood his uniform is drenched with his own; his hands are aching, bleeding, a familiar pattern cut out on their skin that's already inflamed to a bright red. The colonel is about to pass out himself and he knows it knows it's so close to the end but knows that as long as he has her support he'll be ok, he'll be ok and Havoc will be ok and he won't lose anyone else because as long as Riza is there everything will fucking be **ok**!_

_But Riza—his Riza amazing Riza so strong so solid so unwilling to quit—is slumped on the floor with nothing but death in her eyes…_

_(How could this happen? How could it end like this?)_

'_Don't just sit there, Lieutenant! Run!'_

_(Alphonse's armor is scratched and damaged as he stands in front of the first lieutenant, but his voice is steady and his tone is brave: Roy wonders dazedly when it was that the kid grew up…)_

'_Stay out of my way, boy,' Solaris—the homunculus—the bitch!—smirks. 'Don't you see? This woman **wants** to die!'_

_Oh…how could **this** be the end…?_

"Sir?"

Mustang let out a startled gasp, his eyes flying open. When had he fallen asleep…? Breathing in deeply, trying to ignore the cold sweat coating his skin, he turned his head. Goddamn nightmares….

(But were they nightmares if they'd actually happened?)

"Sir? Are you ok?" The slightly uncertain voice currently speaking wasn't Hawkeye's. Roy turned his head to see Master Sergeant Fuery standing by his bedside, peering at him from behind his glasses with that nervous, worried look he always seemed to have lodged in his eyes. "Are you alright, sir? You looked like you were—"

"I'm fine," Roy said curtly. "What are you doing here? Where's Hawkeye?"

A slight, knowing smile appeared on Furey's face. "She's outside, sir. She must have sat down for a minute to rest, because right now she's fast asleep. Slumped over on the chair and everything. Guess she was more tired then she was willing to admit."

"Mmn…" Mustang decided to let that go by without comment. Maybe it _was_ silly that he felt responsible for her exhaustion—hadn't he told her she could take a break if she wanted?—but…considering that the reason she'd been pushing herself so hard the past few days was to make up for her _failure_…

(To make up for that split second of human weakness was more likely. God, what a hypocrite he was. He'd have done the _same damn thing_ if their positions had been switched, and yet he'd yelled at her for relenting until his voice had gone horse. He'd been scared, sure, scared to realize that Riza Hawkeye wasn't infallible, but that was no excuse…)

"I didn't want to wake her," the younger man continued. "I mean, I don't think she's gone home once since you came here. She must be really wiped out."

"Guess so."

Fuery turned towards the door. "I'll go stand guard, then, Colonel Mustang. I'll let you know if Lieutenant Hawkeye wakes up." He saluted quickly and left; Roy hid a wince. Could he have sounded like he cared any _less_?

It was just so damn awkward…he hadn't really had a chance to talk to Hawkeye since he'd, well, blown up on her before.

That look she'd had on her face…she hadn't even been mad at him! Roy'd shouted at her for something he would have done himself, something that was hardly her fault—and she'd blamed only herself, only her weak points. Bad enough that he was an utter_ asshole_, but for Hawkeye to not realize that herself…

Why did she put up with him? Why did she bother?

"_This woman wants to die!"_

_**No**!_

_Roy feels the scream building up in the back of his throat. His Hawkeye can't long for death! She can't give in! He needs her more then he's ever needed anyone, hasn't she realized that yet? She's everything to him! Riza is…Riza is his protector, she's always by his side, she's flawless and perfect and breathtaking and the **only fucking reason** he has left for fighting anymore so she can't give up on them both** now**!_

_Please, Riza, stand up, he pleads without a sound. Alphonse is holding the bitch homunculus off so stop grieving for me and stand up!_

_('I'm not worth your tears, dammit, haven't you figured that out yet?!')_

_He's moving in a fog, now. He can almost **feel** the disaster hovering on the air around him, settling on his skin, drenching him, devouring him. _

_Killing him. Slowly._

_Time has ceased to flow forwards. Everything is frozen, and he can't make himself say a word. _

_There's a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth; after a moment, he realizes dully that it's blood. He's bitten his tongue without noticing, or perhaps his hemorrhaging wounds have finally caught up to him. Perhaps he's dying. _

_Perhaps he's already dead._

Roy yawned, tiredly. What was _with_ this?! He was mentally drained, to the point where he could _feel_ his exhaustion sitting on his shoulders, coagulating heavily against his lungs. And yet, he couldn't fall asleep for anything. He'd dozed off a few times, but never very deeply or for very long—hell, an hour or two ago he'd been in the midst of such a light catnap that Havoc's mumbling in his sleep had woken him right back up.

Oh well…anyway, if he fell asleep right now he'd probably wake up screaming…

He couldn't figure out why it felt like a defeat. He killed the homunculus and saved Hawkeye, didn't he? Only, she wasn't supposed to need saving. She was supposed to be untouchable, undefeatable…in the end, she was always supposed to survive…

_The Flame Alchemist stares in horror at the scene before him. Riza is still on the ground, her lovely face flecked with dirt and tears. She is begging Alphonse, pleading with him to just leave, just forget about her because she can't continue, can't move on, can't keep her grip on life alive as long as her colonel is dead. Roy doesn't understand it. **He's** the obsessed fool, not her!_

_And now the youngest Elric is saying, in a voice still so firm and clear, that he won't leave her, won't watch the lives of those he cares about get wrenched away from him without a fight. And it's all so crazy, because how many times has Hawkeye given that speech to the colonel himself? _

_He wants her to snap out of it. He wants her to realize how irrational she's being._

_He wants her to live!_

_('Don't Riza, don't give up don't surrender she's lying Riza you can't end it you can't let her end it, end everything, end all things, end whatever we had, whatever we had that I don't want to lose! You can't let her kill you, you can't stop because of me, I'm not what keeps you going shouldn't be what keeps you going so just move on just move past just get **up**, Riza!')_

_None of this makes sense: Roy is the one who is stupid and desperate and needs people even though they always die they always abandon him always even Hughes but not Riza, not Riza because she's so wonderful she's so dependable she'll never turn her back on him or abandon him or…_

_('Hawkeye what are you doing why are you giving up get the hell out of here before she kills you I'm not dead and it shouldn't matter if I was just go just fucking go just leave me the hell behind!')_

_How could Riza do this? How could his death be enough to destroy her? How could she fall for this? How could he mean that much to her…?_

_(There are questions Roy will never know the answers to.)_

_The end of the world has come—this room, this place, this…this can only be hell. And it is here, with this recognition, that Roy finds his voice. _

_He says some meaningless thing that makes him sound so cool so calm so in-fucking-control, and Solaris whirls around in shock. _

_She'd been smirking, had extended her nails to attack a defenseless Riza, and now that Hawkeye sees him there she's still sitting, still hunched over, still not running away because now she wants to help her colonel—Gods, Roy marvels, she never thinks of her damn self! _

_He snaps his fingers and flames are born—_

_('You're finally on your knees, Monster. This is where you will pay.')_

'_How?' Solaris—or is it Lust?–demands as she heals quickly from her burns, but Roy is not listening. He is hearing his first lieutenant's startled gasp, and it is echoing madly from ear to ear. There are so many things he wants to tell her…so many things he needs her to know now that the end of everything he had is here. _

_('Get the fuck away from my lieutenant!' he does not say, because fraternization is illegal and he knows that oh so well.)_

'_How are you still alive?!' the homunculus rages again. 'You should be hemorrhaging from your wounds!' _

_(That's the truth, he should be dead, should be gone from this world but he can't die because then he'd leave Riza and he can't, won't, will **never** let her go.)_

_The colonel gets his mouth to move and shows Solaris the ugly, blistering scars on his side. He feels more fresh blood seep into his mouth and knows he doesn't have much time left, but still he cannot bring himself to move—his eyes are fixed tightly on his fallen first lieutenant. How can this be…? Hawkeye is unbreakable, but she looks broken as all hell here, and Roy feels a slow blaze of fury at the thought of someone dragging her so far down._

_How could that be possible? Who has that sort of power?_

_('Don't do this Riza, don't do this to me, don't love me because this is what happens when you love me, when I love you back, this is what happens, this is what comes out of it, this is…!')_

_This is madness. This is a dream._

Two in the morning. Gods above, Mustang had never realized how damned_ long_ one night could be! He shifted again, feeling another sharp throb in his side. From what the doctors had told him, he was fortunate to still be alive after charbroiling himself to stop the bleeding. Of course, if by 'fortunate' they meant 'able to do nothing but lounge around in a hospital bed', then fortune was a tad bit over-rated…

Jeeze. Roy'd certainly never thought the day would come when he'd miss paperwork and pointless phone calls.

He snuck a quick peek at the door. Still no Hawkeye…she must have really been dead to the world if her inner instinct to guard him could be repressed for this long. He sighed, quietly, although Havoc was still off in dreamland and wouldn't have heard him if he'd broken into song. The mystery that was the first lieutenant…would he ever be able to figure her out?

Mustang closed his eyes—no good. Every time he did _that_ he saw Hawkeye's face as it had been several days ago…he saw her expression blanch with shock upon hearing his voice, saw her trying to squirm her way past the barrier Al had thrown up the second they'd realized he was there. Saw her reaching out for him, frantically, looking so lost and anxious and helpless…his first lieutenant,_helpless_, because the homunculus Lust was between them, and try as she might she couldn't protect him this time around…

She'd screamed his name, he remembered, his head beginning to pound and his thoughts becoming sluggish and drugged. She'd screamed out his name, reached for him with all her might, and her eyes overflowed with hope and disbelief. Hawkeye had given him up for dead completely, and blamed herself for all his spilt blood.

But, to her stunned surprise, he'd made it back, stumbled into the room with Havoc bleeding to death behind him because he had to save at least _one_ person…had to at least keep alive the woman he loved…

Had to…

Roy suddenly realized why he'd yelled at her before. He was angry with her—angry with her for offering her life to Lust as if that was some kind of fair equivalent exchange. As if she had no one else but him to protect herself for. It was insane! How dare she give up…!

Try as he might, he just couldn't forgive her for that. He couldn't forgive her for wanting to let go. And he couldn't forgive himself for being the reason she was there at all.

It would seem, he thought thickly, his mind suddenly blanketed by a strange, rapidly forming haze, that forgiveness was a virtue he had long ago destroyed.

'_How are you still alive?'_

_Solaris's question hangs in midair; Riza's eyes echo it. She seems afraid that he is an illusion, a cruel specter or a ghost. Gods…he's seen and done so much already, but Roy cannot bear this now._

'_I used fire to sear the wounds closed,' he growls, breathing hard, trying to keep them from noticing he's in agonizing pain. 'Almost passed out two or three times in the process…!'_

'_Colonel!' Lieutenant Hawkeye tries to shout. She looks horrified now; her gaze is fastened to that distorted patch of skin on his side. _

_(Roy is almost certain she's blaming herself for it.)_

_Lust is lunging for him, but he's too filled with rage to care. 'You said before that it would take more then what I had to kill you,' he snarls. 'If that is the case'—and now he's out of his sickly fog and back to being the revenge-driven alchemist he's always been— '**then I will just have to keep killing you until you stay dead**!'_

_(I will kill you for what you did to Havoc, what you did to me, what you did to my first lieutenant. I will kill you for breaking her! I will kill you for that above everything else!)_

_He snaps and Lust shrieks, burns, heals herself, shrieks, burns, heals…over and over again, a vicious cycle. She roars with anger and strikes at him, fingers outstretched—_

_Riza's scream reaches his ears. For a second, the entire world goes black._

As it turned out, Roy's sleeping troubles weren't caused by his fretful musings, but by the fever that had stealthily climbed its way up to reach dangerous temperatures inside his head. At one point or another he must have passed out, because the next thing he knew, he was opening his eyes and it was two and a half days later.

"Colonel Mustang…?"

Lieutenant Hawkeye was bending over him. There were dark smudges under her bloodshot eyes, and her unusually-lusterless hair hung limply from a hastily-made bun. Her worried expression--in place of the typical emotionless mask--was startling.

"Riza…" Mustang mumbled drowsily, his voice weak, his throat painfully raw. "Riza…don't you see…? You can't ever give up. You can't ever leave me behind…" His lieutenant looked taken aback; she started to speak, hesitantly, but the colonel was afraid that if he stopped talking now he'd never talk again. "Keep fighting, Riza. Don't…don't let the world crumble just yet."

(_Don't you realize how much I need you?)_

The room started to spin slightly; Roy shut his eyes. He fell asleep almost instantly, and so whatever response Hawkeye might have had never reached his ears.

Maybe it was better off that way, though, in the end. Loving her openly would be so dangerous, and Roy didn't think he had the strength.

_The room is very quiet._

_Smoke has turned the air into a hazy, foul-tasting grey mess; Roy feels lightheaded but can't decide if that's from loss of blood or lack of oxygen. He stands very still, as if immobilized once and for all._

_(Hawkeye's scream has frozen him. She sounds desperate, and he is glad she does because dead people can't sound desperate. Riza is **alive**—what else does he need to know?)_

_Lust is staring at him. Her finger, outstretched, is a mere inch from his face._

'…_You won,' she sighs, almost pleasantly. 'I hate to lose…but if I must die, I'm glad it's at the hands of a man like you.' _

_(What she doesn't say is just as clear: 'a man like you who will lose himself for others—what wouldn't you have done to save her just now? The line between monster and human is blurring…which side will you choose if her life is on the line?')_

'_Those eyes…' The homunculus is fading, disintegrating before Roy's eyes, but still she smiles at him, and really, it feels like she has won. 'Those eyes, so clear and focused…I love them. I look forward…to seeing those eyes become clouded from suffering. That day…' Her voice as she dies is tinged with foreboding; it sends a chill down the flame alchemist's spine because a part of him knows his future will be exactly as Lust foretells it…_

'_That day,' she breathes, 'is coming…very…soon….'_

_(Roy knows she is right.)_

_But for now, the story ends differently: he feels himself waver again, and this time there's no point that Mustang can find to holding himself upright._

_His Riza gasps as he crumples to the ground—gasps which means she inhales air which means her lungs are working which means she's**alive**, dammit, alive and at his side already, pulling him up against her, cradling his head in her hands._

'_Colonel…' she murmurs weakly._

'_Ah…First Lieutenant, you're safe...'_

'_Worry about yourself, sir!'_

_(But she's the most important thing he has, so isn't that exactly what he's doing?)_

'_Please…hurry…' he adds, using words that are slurred and distant. 'Call a doctor for Havoc.'_

_And Roy fades out, because it hurts too much to keep going, and also why should he bother if even Riza can be destroyed over him? What right does he have to breathe when by doing so he would steal her breath?_

_(Still, even as he decides that nothing good will ever come of this, the one thought does reach his mind: it's the greatest feeling in the world, falling away into darkness with his head in his lieutenant's lap…)_

* * *

* * *

AN-- so, um...confusing? I thought so._  
_


	16. 60: at the window

AN- So, yes. Actually finished this several days ago, but figured I'd wait until Royai Day to submit it 'cause at my current pace, my next update won't be until next century sometime. But...I gots impatient, so consider this an early submission! (I love how there's a Day for this paring, but why THAT day, anyway?)

In 'honor of the Day' and to make up for the even-longer-then-freeking-usual-delay, I went with something fluffier then usual. Plus, it was written for a prompt given to me by **Akeyana**, and I wanted to challenge myself and go light-hearted with a prompt made more for angst.

Review, critique, request...you know the drill. **  
**

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* * *

**As the Gentle Rain**  
(_60.__ at the window)_  
(_Request fic for **Akeyana)**_  
(_Prompt: __**blood-red skies**_)

"I know this--a man got to do what he got to do."  
--John Steinbeck, _The Grapes of Wrath_

It was all the rain's fault, really.

Colonel Mustang, stuck in the office long after the typical time to leave had come and gone, was restlessly trying to come up with a way to escape the pit of boredom that was Central Headquarters at the moment. Normally he'd have snuck away hours ago, but his erstwhile first lieutenant was there as well, and she'd made it perfectly clear that the colonel wasn't to leave the room until all his paperwork was done.

Which, at Roy's current pace, would take approximately three years.

He couldn't understand why the lieutenant hadn't followed the example of the rest of his subordinates, who'd fled the scene the second they could….but then again, he never _had_ understood that woman. All he knew right now was that Riza Hawkeye was not going to leave—and therefore was not going to give _Roy_ a chance to leave—until the evil, _evil_ mess on his desk was cleaned away.

Damn, did he hate paperwork.

(It wasn't even _fair_, Roy whined mentally: why did Hawkeye always boss him around when _he_ was the superior officer? And more to the point, why did he let her?)

Regardless, by the time the last sheet of paper was filed away it was nearly two in the morning. Roy felt like something dead and decaying that'd been dug up, but Hawkeye, who'd been reading some book for the past…hours…since she'd finished _her_ work promptly on time, seemed perfectly wide-awake.

Then again, Roy was pretty sure she was super-human. (It was the only logical explanation when you thought about it.)

Stretching, he yawned and gazed at her through bleary eyes. "There. All done. I even initialed in the right places this time. Now can I _please_ go home, madam jailer?"

The first lieutenant was perfectly unfazed. "If you would hand in your paperwork on time, you could go home when you're supposed to."

"Yeah, yeah…." Roy started to stretch, but stopped when a noise caught his attention. Dread built in the pit of his stomach—shit, he _knew_ what that sound was! —he turned around just in time to see it…

"It's starting to rain," Hawkeye observed calmly. "Do you have an umbrella, sir?"

"Nuh uh." Roy stared glumly out the picture window behind his desk.

Dammit.

Quite possibly the only thing he hated worse then paperwork was rain…and now it was pouring!

Stupid weather…stupid paperwork…stupid—

"Sir?" Hawkeye was looking at him. Her coat was already on, and she had his draped across her arm. "Are you alright, Colonel? You looked…pensive, just now."

"It's nothing," he grunted. "Just hate the rain…."

His lieutenant's eyes softened; Roy wasn't sure why, but a small, deep-inside part of him felt proud that he could get her to drop her mask.

"If you'd like, I could drive you home, sir. So you wouldn't have to walk in the rain without an umbrella."

"Nah…I kept you here late enough, go home and get to bed." He turned to the small radio that always sat on the edge of his desk. "It's probably just a quick cloud-burst, it'll blow over quickly. I'll wait it out here, and head home once it's done."

"Sir…" Hawkeye's raised eyebrow told him that she doubted the wisdom of this plan. "Perhaps I should stay with you."

"Relax, Lieutenant, it's fine. I'm a big boy, I can stay in a room alone for a while." With a wave of his hand, "Now go on, get outta here. I'll see you tomorrow."

His subordinate didn't budge. "This storm could last longer then you think, and you're tired."

"I'm _fine_, Hawkeye. I'm not that tired."

"I believe you _are_ that tired, sir."

"I'm _not_—"

He yawned.

The lieutenant frowned, just a bit. "With all due respect, sir, stop being such a stubborn idiot."

Mustang rolled his eyes. "Look, the storm'll be over any second." He flicked the radio on and twisted the dial until he found a weather report, full of static but still understandable. "Just listen. Guarantee you that they'll say it's just a quick, passing thing—"

"…should be prepared for an all-night downpour…Central City residents in particular are advised to be on the lookout for flash floods…."

Roy snapped the radio off. He glared.

"Don't. Say. A word."

Hawkeye merely stepped past him to glance out the window. Sure enough, the storm outside had grown even more intense; the wind rattled the glass and the cloudy night sky looked grim and angry. She sighed and slipped her coat off, prompting a confused "huh?" from her boss.

"I feel it would be best if I remained here until the storm passes. In this weather it would be too unwise for you to attempt going home on your own, sir, and staying in an empty building all night by yourself could be dangerous if there's flooding."

Roy harrumphed. "You make me sound like a little kid who needs to hold someone's hand when he crosses the street! Rgh…but…I guess you do have a point, as usual." He grinned. "Looks like we're stuck together."

Hawkeye nodded. "It would appear so, Colonel."

"…You sound utterly thrilled about the idea," Roy commented wryly.

Hawkeye allowed the slightest tinge of a smile to grace her face for a moment. For no reason Roy was able to figure out, he suddenly realized just how pretty her smile _was_. "I apologize, sir, if this offends your ego, but considering the late hour I wouldn't be thrilled about having to remain in the office with _anyone_ right now."

"Oh. Well…you could sleep on the couch if you wanted," he offered. "That's why I put it in the office to begin with. I'll wake you up when the rain stops."

"No thank you, sir, that wouldn't be appropriate. My job is to assist you, not sleep."

"Trust me, you've done more then your fair share of assisting me," Roy assured her. Then he paused. "…Was it me, or did that sound dirty?"

His lieutenant sighed. 

* * *

"Um…hey, I'm sorry."

Roy could tell by the startled expression on Riza Hawkeye's face that she hadn't been expecting that. Then again, who could blame her? They'd been sitting at their respective desks for about half an hour now without a single word passing between them; for his part, the colonel had been listening idly to the never-ending rainfall and deciding that he rather _liked_ being stuck in the office after hours with his first lieutenant. But then she'd yawned, softly and with an obvious effort to hide it behind her hand, and that all-too-familiar sense of guilt crept by him….

"Sorry for what, sir?"

"For getting you stuck here. I know you must be exhausted…I didn't do half the work you did today and I'm about to drop."

Hawkeye looked confused. "…It's not your fault it started raining, sir."

"No, I know, but…I mean, if I'd finished on time today we both woulda gotten out before this friggen hurricane started."

She shook her head, another small smile (-ish) appearing. "Believe me, Colonel Mustang, I don't blame you for the weather. It _would_ be nice if you worked a little harder, but if you did I'd have to take a sick day from the shock of seeing you put forth effort."

"No fair," Roy whined, "You're not allowed to make jokes at my expense."

"My apologies, sir. It appears I've been breaking that rule for several years now."

"Figures. My loyal subordinates are all plotting against me."

"I think you're becoming sleep-deprived, sir."

"Very funny." Mustang stood up and stretched, trying unsuccessfully to work the kinks from his back. "Hey, you in the mood for a post-midnight snack? The cafeteria should be easy enough to break into."

Hawkeye gave him her typical disapproving stare. "Breaking and entering—not to mention _stealing_—is illegal, Colonel."

"Aw, c'mon. It's not like I'm suggesting we rob a bank! If you really want to pay them back tomorrow, fine, but honestly, who's gonna miss a couple of sandwiches?"

"Well…" she relented, and her commanding officer grinned.

"I'm a bad influence on you, y'know that? C'mon, let's go before I die from hunger pains."

And at that exact moment, with thunder roaring in the background, the lights went out.

* * *

_Thunk. _

"Ow! Dammit!"

In the space of ten minutes, Roy had managed to walk into three chairs, two desks, and one slightly worn couch, and yet he still hadn't had any luck _accidentally_ (on purpose) bumping into his first lieutenant. He knew where she was—rummaging through Havoc's desk in the hopes of finding a working flashlight—but he couldn't seem to _time_ it right.

Or get anywhere near her without walking into some inanimate object.

A flash of lightning briefly lit up the room (gods above, since when did thunder storms last this _long_?), and he caught a glimpse of Hawkeye pulling a flashlight out of a desk drawer, lips pressed together in a tight smile of success.

But long after the flash had already faded off, there was still no beam of artificial light…

"It's dead," she announced dryly, dropping the flashlight back onto the desktop. (Roy admired her self-control. If it'd been him, he'd have thrown the damn thing out the window.)

"Oh, of _course_ it is. That just makes _perfect_ sense. Why have a _working_ flashlight in your desk? Who _does_ that, _really_?" He flopped onto the couch, grumbling. "This is utter shit. Do you realize that, Lieutenant? Utter and completely horse shit."

"Please watch your mouth, sir," the lieutenant said tiredly, drained of all energy by this fiasco.

"Why? 'Horse shit' describes the situation perfectly." Roy stewed angrily and in silence for about five seconds—five _blissful_ seconds for the woman in the room—before bursting out, "This _sucks_! It's freaking dark, I can't see a _thing_!"

"Neither can I, sir," Hawkeye reminded him. "Since we're in Central Headquarters, I'd imagine the power would be restored somewhat quickly."

"Rgh, don't count on it. And anyway, what're we supposed to do until it _does_ get fixed, sit in the dark for the next hundred hours?"

"We could. But seeing as how I'm not all that partial to the idea of listening to you complain for those next hundred hours, I respectfully suggest that we look to see if there are any emergency candles in the closet."

Roy looked aimlessly in the general direction of said closet.

"…That'd make sense."

* * *

He fumbled around in the darkness for a while, cursing every god he knew and some he was pretty sure he'd made up on the spot, but eventually Roy found the closet and got the door open. Hawkeye, moving with a quiet stealth that seemed not at all hampered by the lack of light (then again, snipers were used to being careful no matter what), stood next to him, waiting patiently as he rummaged through the shelves.

"Dammit…so much useless crap in here…!" His fingers closed on something that might have been a candle, but it slipped from his grasp and fell further down on the shelf. "Dammit!"

"Do you need any assistance, Colonel?"

"No, I don't." Roy gritted his teeth. _Him_, needing help getting a blasted candle from the closet? Hah! Like he'd admit to _that_ (or anything else that made him look stupid) in front of the lieutenant. Growling under his breath, he reached as far back as he could possibly manage, standing on his tiptoes and putting a lot of weight on the shelf.

Which probably wasn't the smartest idea in the world, as the closet shelves were made of the highest-quality wood the military was willing to pay for, i.e. complete crap. And since they were made of complete crap (or to be exact, a cheap-o kind of plywood), they could barely hold the usual clutter, much less the added weight of Colonel Mustang.

So the shelf cracked. Roy lost his balance completely.

"Whaah—ow!"

And fell right on Hawkeye.

* * *

"_Sir_!"

It was, Roy mused, something out of a cheesy romance novel: him, sprawled not on the ground but on his _very_ startled and _very_ annoyed first lieutenant. Her face was tinged a shade of red he'd never actually seen her wear before (it was really rather attractive). He rose up on his elbows, thoughtfully, and looked at her a bit.

"Ah—Colonel—sir!"

Hawkeye sounded understandably flustered…after all, enough time had passed that his falling stunt no longer looked like an embarrassed accident…and since he wasn't reacting strongly he obviously hadn't hurt himself…

"Sorry," Roy said. Then he kissed her.

* * *

The storm broke with the sun's rising; the colonel stood by the window and watched the view. The sky had turned a vibrant, almost eerie blood-red color…probably leftovers from last night's rain, Roy knew, but still the sight sent chills down his spine.

He was used to dark shades of red such as this coming from fire, from flames. He was used to dreaming in similar shades: ugly streaks of burnt copper against a background of dull black. But this sunrise didn't bring back any thoughts of Ishbal or any memories of blood on his hands…it was just _nice_. It was just a pretty start to what promised to be a sunny day.

Roy looked over his shoulder at Hawkeye. She stood next to him, as always, as forever, and when he reached over and held her hand she squeezed his fingers slightly.

The colonel silently thanked the rain for holding them hostage the past night. It was the first time he'd ever enjoyed a storm, _ever_, and it felt weird as all hell, but who was he to complain?

"Well," he yawned, basking in the sun, the warmth, and his beautiful lieutenant's beautiful gaze, "Guess we better get going."

"If there's even a point to leaving at this point," Hawkeye observed; Roy grinned.

"I dunno about you, but I'm taking the day off."

"Oh really."

"Yes really. You just watch."

"So I suppose all your paperwork for today will just complete itself?"

"Y'know something, Hawkeye, I couldn't care less."

"That's perfectly obvious, sir."

And this gentle, meaningless banter was cheerfully familiar, which was good considering that for a while there Roy hadn't been sure what in the world he was _doing_. But now he smirked at his lieutenant and she eyed him back, and he knew that everything was all right with everyone everywhere even as he idly wondered what would happen if he kissed her again.

And the blood-red sky faded to blue.

* * *

* * *

AN- Roy was so out of character. Whoot. And as for the cliche' 'Lover A falls on top of Lover B' part...yah, no excuse for that, other then it's Roy and Riza and therefore cute. :cough:

On the bright side, a non-fanfiction version of _**Funerals for the Dead, Funerals for the Living **_made it into my school's lit mag. Double whoot.


	17. 11: liar

AN- First off, from August 1st-13th I'll be heading to Israel for a vacation, so expect nadda in terms of updates. Then there'll be a two week window of opportunity to post something that I'll probably end up doing nothing with before I leave for college...and once I leave, it's gonna take me at least until November to get settled enough to update. So please hang tight!

Just something I was inspired to churn out after rereading the later manga chapters. Thought I'd try something new.

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**The Future Roy Will Never Have**  
_(11. Liar)_

"_The mind is its own place, and in itself  
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven."_  
--John Milton, _Paradise Lost_

_The First. _

Amazing, how lucky he was.

More then two months since Riza had come to him with the news (more then seven since the removal of the military's anti-fraternization laws, more then five since their marriage), and Roy still woke up in utter shock each morning, still couldn't believe his good fortune.

He didn't _dare_ to believe it! Life was so fragile…good things were so often torn apart….

After all, when one considered his _past_…when his past was pulled into view his life at the moment felt like such a _mistake_. He had burned and battered and destroyed, and yet he was still able to put his arms around his wife and feel her swollen belly, feel the life inside.

Riza…Riza was _pregnant_.

It was just so bizarre. Roy Mustang the Husband was a weird enough role to fill, but Roy Mustang the _Father_? It was a role that just didn't seem to fit.

Still….

He was a murderer who'd dodged karma and it didn't seem fair, but maybe it was possible to find forgiveness in this world.

_The Second._

Once they learned that their child would be a boy, Roy began to come up with baby names, idly and without any real passion. Riza smiled at some of his suggestions, rolled her eyes at others, and for reasons Roy simply _couldn't_ understand, absolutely refused to name the baby 'Roy Jr.'

Nothing he mentioned stuck, though. The two of them went through the name-finding process without any real convictions, and with good reason—the minute the gender was announced, they both knew their son's name would be Maes.

_The Third._

Riza moved with such _grace_, even while pregnant. She'd always had a fluid drift to her motions, had always been able to walk without making a sound. Her years as a sniper ensured that Roy would often turn around only to be startled by her sudden presence behind him. He was used to her quiet elegance (used to seeing her keep that elegance even with her finger on the trigger and death in her wake), but he'd assumed that even Hawkeye would find her movements growing awkward and unwieldy as her stomach became more pronounced.

He was wrong, of course. Other then the morning sickness early on and her sudden desire for all sorts of strange food concoctions, his wife-lieutenant always kept her unruffled calm.

Just another hint at how amazing she'd be at motherhood, Roy decided.

_The Fourth._

Roy was excited, but it didn't take long for the panic to set in.

What if he screwed something up? That was his forte, wasn't it? Fucking things over, nice and hideously, and then paying for it later?

What if…what if his son hated him? That happened all the time! Sons and fathers tried to have that fairy-tale relationship and ended up driving each other off separate cliffs entirely. It wasn't like Roy Mustang knew the first damn thing about being a father, or about having one. It'd been him and his Xingese mother (the exact opposite of Riza, come to think of it) for as long as he could remember; all he knew about his old man was that he must have been from Amestris, considering the only Xing-like things about Roy were his eyes, and that he very well could have been an alchemist.

That wasn't a whole lot, really, and although Roy'd never really missed not knowing his own dad, it suddenly felt as though not having any experience as a son was setting him up at a major disadvantage. How the hell was he supposed to know how to take care of someone else? Especially a very _small_ someone else, who'd be relying on him for every single thing….

God fucking dammit, he was going to do _something_ wrong. He was going to make some mistake somewhere and then his kid would _hate_ him...!

Fortunately, Roy wasn't alone in his dread; Riza was always there to run a careful hand through his hair and tell him to relax.

_The Fifth._

It was the end of an era--not that Roy cared.

He knew he was trading in late nights spent baking in the oppressively clingy stench of bars for late nights spent calming a fussy newborn. No more sleeping till noon, no more stumbling into the kitchen for a beer in lieu of breakfast: once Maes was born, it'd be up with the sun (and most likely down at three in the afternoon, considering how exhausting this new 'job' was going to be).

And Roy also knew he'd have to kiss what was left of his lady's man reputation goodbye. He hadn't seriously flirted with other women since long before his marriage, but every now and then it was nice to know that he could still catch the eye of some not-_quite_-as-attractive-as-the-one-he-was-living-with-blonde, that he hadn't exchanged _all_ his charm for that gold ring on his finger. Only problem was, men who carried cranky babies around and who looked as if they managed to sleep once a week at best didn't tend to attract too many female fans, from what he'd seen.

Roy was perfectly fine with that.

A younger version of Roy Mustang might have sworn to stay a bachelor until the day he dropped dead, but that younger version was the pre-Ishbal, pre-_Riza_ model, and he'd been obsolete for a decade. It didn't get any better then what he was about to have…he'd give up everything, _anything_, to keep this dream afloat….

Forget one night stands--Roy could collapse into bed after an exhausting day and find his beautiful lieutenant right at his side. He could watch as day by day her stomach got that much larger, and he could submerge himself in a lifestyle he'd given up for dead in the ashes of war, and he could have _so much more_ then he would _ever_ deserve….

For Roy Mustang, the end of the era couldn't come too soon….

_The Only._

(_This is the future the colonel dreams about when he is alone, when he is in his office or in his apartment or in the local tavern and always alone, always away from her. This is the future he has forever longed for, this is his secret desire, and this is what will never be his. _

_Roy knows it would be wonderful if only he could stop dreaming; it would be perfect if only he could never wake up.)_

* * *

* * *

AN- I think my biggest problem with this one is that it gets confusing. To be honest the last part was a late addition, but I got the idea for it after realizing that without it, this was just a sickly-sweet, pretty average, nothing-special one-shot. So yah.

And yes, I realize that using Hughes's name as the name of any Roy/Riza offspring is cliche' to the max, but...c'mon...like Roy would honestly name his first son anything else! Heh.

Oh, and as for Roy being part-Xing...that won't make any sense unless you read the manga, and even then it's still not actually canon, but I read several other fanfics that gave Mustang Xing blood, and...I dunno...seemed to fit, somehow. I like the idea. (Plus it explains the eyes!) So even though it's probably not true, I decided to go with it just to give the bastard some plausible backstory.

Review?


	18. 13: betrayal

AN-- Ahhh. The agony that was writing this chapter! It wasn't the actual _writing _that was so hard...it came in spurts as always but usually once I started I'd get a good chunk done at a time. No, the real trouble--what kept it sitting aimlessly on my hard drive for over a month--was the title. Or rather, lack thereof. I still hate what's there, but after spending _two_ _hours _with a couple friends fighting over what the title should be, at this point I just want it to be finished!

Besides the evil title, I liked how this turned out. There _are_ a lot of (-) in it, though...can't decide if I like that or not. Lemme know if you think I went overboard. As per usual, college will prevent any fast updates...once every few months is going to have to be the norm.

_Please _review! Good or bad, getting 'em in my inbox tends to be a good kick to the rear to get me writing faster. Also, I've been doing this pairing for so long that ideas are becoming harder to dredge up...requests would be loved as always. (I'm also branching out a bit more into the _Avatar-The Last Airbender_ section, so if you're a fan of that show...)

* * *

* * *

**A Recovery Deceptive**  
(_13. Betrayal_)

(It's an accident, of course, and when it happens Roy Mustang is very drunk.)

It's only been two-and-one-half months since Hughes's murder (not that Roy has been keeping track, not that he has been wondering exactly when the day will come that he doesn't feel a strong lurch in his stomach every time he remembers), and the colonel has been keeping himself very busy after work hours. He has been frequenting all sorts of questionable bars, he has been sleeping with all sorts of questionable women, and most of all he has been finding all sorts of questionable ways to spend his free time.

Most of these ways involve him intoxicated, but what better way to forget his loss?

(It's because he knows Maes would never approve of this method of coping that he sticks to it so stubbornly. The bastard. Why the hell should Roy care about what _his_ opinions are…were? Idiot goes and gets himself killed, goes and leaves his family, goes and leaves Roy half-shouting into that damned phone, and _his_ feelings on coping are still supposed to carry any weight?

Roy is angry with Hughes even as he misses him, and he doesn't want to take that bastard's supposed advice.)

So, yes, Mustang has kept himself very busy for those two-and-one-half months; when he's not at work, push-push-_pushing_ his way to the top, he's running away from what he refuses to accept.

Only Roy doesn't see it as running away, because he's never been that sort of person. He sees it as self-preservation, and to hell with anyone who says he should be strong enough to embrace this new burden.

Because he isn't, and he never will be, and _dammit_, it would be nice if people—people like Riza Hawkeye—would stop trusting him to lead them on.

* * *

The accident, in retrospect, isn't even really an _accident_—his attacker certainly _means_ to come at him with that silly little switchblade in hand. A sober Flame Alchemist would have laughed at the sight, but at the moment he is not sober and can barely remember what the hell he said to tick the guy off.

He can barely remember why he chose _this_ rundown dump of a bar to get wasted in after work…it's a Friday, and for once he has no eager woman waiting for him to ooze fake-charm, and he supposes that not wanting to be home alone with his demons is as good a reason as any to come to this particular joint.

And anyway, he doesn't have time to consider the matter any further—his enraged attacker is lunging at him; even when drunk Roy is fast and the switchblade misses entirely. He raises his hand to snap, but then remembers he doesn't have his gloves on and couldn't exactly _kill_ the guy even if he did.

His opponent is just as non-sober as Mustang is, and his wild attempts at stabbing keep falling short. For his part, Roy just dodges the man's assaults, his cloudy head making it difficult to focus on the issue at hand.

He really can't recall what he said to provoke this, but undoubtedly he _did_ provoke it; Mustang never seems to get on anyone's good side when he's inebriated. Or when he's sober, for that matter…he can count on one hand the number of true, close friends he's had. Most people just get that smug, arrogant shell. Hughes had managed to break through it, and…Hawkeye…

A sudden, biting pain stabs at him—his punishment for not paying full attention. As out of it as he is, the other man has managed to make contact, and now Roy's arm has been slashed from shoulder to elbow. Blood wells out of the gash, but strangely enough there's very little pain, possibly because of his current mental condition. He stares at the wound, morbidly fascinated: oh look, another scar to add to his collection. A new wound to join all the scratches and scrapes Ishbal left him with. Plus the other marks gotten in other bar fights back when he was still a private, back before the war, when he loved nothing better then to start something with someone and jump in headfirst, Maes at his side, grinning ear-to-ear because he was young and reckless and going to have such a _fantastic_ future.

More blood runs down his arm, splattering on the filthy floor below. Roy is still waiting to feel something besides surprise.

His attacker hasn't fled yet; egged on by the gathered crowd, he waves the red-stained switchblade around and grins proudly. Roy absently notes how badly the man is swaying on his feet and knows that even in his current condition he could still win the fight easily—_perks of military training_, he thinks.

Still, he has yet to make a move, and the other man takes this as a sign of weakness. The entrance door bangs open behind Roy, but neither man glances to see if it's the police arriving to break up the fight; one is too drunk to realize he should, and the other is both too drunk and too apathetic.

(Which he really shouldn't be; he really _should_ care, considering his career aspirations. But he doesn't care right now, and the blood is still dripping from his arm, and Maes has been dead two-and-one-half months so fuck the police and fuck the fallout, if you please.)

The crowd is getting restless. Slashed across the arm and all the victim can do is watch the blood flow? Roy finally looks up, shrugs, assumes that damned _persona_ of his, and it's another Roy Mustang entirely who sneers, "You're going to regret doing that."

The man—not so old, but very red in the face and with very blood-shot blue eyes—scowls. He lifts his blade (the crowd seems to approve) and whips it out at Mustang again, wildly, yelling some four-letter word or another that just sounds like gibberish to Roy.

The switchblade sings as it nears its target—

Roy blinks. It is possible that he has begun to hallucinate. But if he _is_, then why is he hallucinating Riza Hawkeye?

Because his blonde first lieutenant is standing in front of him now, having pinned the switchblade-man's arm behind his back, the weapon itself by her feet. The man is snarling slurred curse words at her, the crowd is nervously breaking up, and Hawkeye's calm expression states that this is easy, this is nothing; she is more then well-equipped to handle some intoxicated fool with a knife.

Roy stares at her, dumbly. He can't figure out why she's here—Hawkeye doesn't drink—how she knew—and if she did she wouldn't drink _here_—and what, exactly, he's supposed to say now—

"Sir," Hawkeye says. "Are you all right?"

He looks down at his injured arm again, and shrugs: instantly he wishes he hadn't, because a crackling pain rages all the way down to the tips of his fingers when he does. A grimace comes across his face before he can fight it.

"Colonel…" His lieutenant sounds a bit more on edge now. "Sir, if you would, please wait for me outside." Her grip on the switchblade-man tightens slightly. "I need to have a word with this individual."

What else is there to do but nod and head for the door? Roy's pretty sure this is all a dream anyway. Outside, he leans against the cold, wet brick of the building and tries not to shiver. His arm is making up for lost time, screaming with discomfort; he begins to feel rather nauseous and closes his eyes.

The alcohol in his system creeps out to play, and standing upright begins to seem more and more unreasonable…

"Sir."

Roy opens his eyes, wearily. His lieutenant is standing in front of him, and he thinks aimlessly that maybe her expression isn't quite as stone-smooth as it was inside.

"Sir," she begins, but he cuts her off.

"How'd…so…how'd you find me, anyway?" Surprisingly enough, his words are only slightly slurred.

"I knew that, today being Friday and without the threat of an early morning start hanging over your head, you'd be far more likely to partake in…unwise behavior. It was only a matter of locating you—fortunately, the bars in Central are all in the same general area. I've just had to go from one to the next."

For the first time tonight, Mustang really _looks_ at her. He is suddenly aware of a certain _bite_ to her voice…anger, he realizes. She is angry with him. And worried.

Hawkeye moves closer, and her fingers graze his arm. He sucks in his breath, sharply.

"God dammit, that _hurts_, Hawkeye! Don't just—"

"You need to be more careful, Colonel," she snaps at him, an angry quiver in her voice. "This was very foolish of you. With all due respect, do you realize the danger you put yourself in? This is not a safe part of the city, and being who you are, you should take more precaution! Flame Alchemist or not, you are still mortal, sir. If you _must_ insist on drinking yourself into an early grave, you could at least allow someone else to accompany you!"

"Lieutenant…" Roy's voice trails off. Mentally, he tries to think: Hawkeye, going from bar to bar looking for him…how long would that take? How long has she been looking? An hour? Two?

(Two-and-one-half months since Hughes died, and Roy still needs to be found, because he is still very lost.)

Her hand brushes at the wound again. Already she is taking off her uniform jacket and wrapping it around his arm, carefully.

Hawkeye's hands are gentle against his injury, but they are not soft. Calluses run over her palms and pad her fingers, marring what would otherwise be smooth skin. She is too much a warrior to be a healer, too much his protector to be his nursemaid as well; Roy thinks that he prefers it that way, after all.

"Keep the wound covered, Colonel. Otherwise it could become infected."

He nods, once, twice, and then just keeps nodding because it seems so easy to do. The ground is swirling underneath his feet and he sways, listlessly. If he wasn't so drunk he'd laugh at what a mess this has turned into.

"Here, sir." His lieutenant takes Roy's good arm and lifts it onto her shoulders, allowing the colonel to lean against her. He ends up letting her bare most of his weight, despite his best efforts not to; she seems perfectly able to support him, though, and it's just another reminder of how damn _strong_ this woman is.

"This, Lieutenant…" Roy tries to sound stern. "This is…unwarranted and inappropriate…physical contact…"

The lieutenant rolls her eyes. "Under the circumstances, Colonel, I think it would be best if you just focused on staying awake long enough to make it back to your apartment."

"Why not yours?" he asks. "I'd like to see yours. I'd like to…_move into_ yours."

(But Hawkeye assumes it is a drunken joke and so she does not answer.)

* * *

It's Hawkeye who takes the keys from his fumbling hands and lets them both inside his dim, messy apartment. It's Hawkeye who steers Mustang in the direction of his bed, and it's Hawkeye who sees to it that he ends up in that bed without walking into a wall first. Once he's lying down, she turns as if to leave, but it suddenly hits Roy that it would be wrong to just let her walk off without saying something first.

He should apologize. He should promise her he'll knock off the stupid behavior and buckle down.

"Lieutenant…"

"Rest, sir. You need the sleep."

"Yeah, but…Lieutenant…"

(What is he supposed to _say_? 'Thank you very much, Lieutenant Hawkeye, I appreciate you saving my ass just like you always do, oh and by the way I love you more then I've ever loved anyone, so if we could just pretend like the walls between us aren't there for one lousy goddamn moment…')

She is walking away again, as is appropriate. They are far too close for comfort right now, according to the rules.

('You don't have to go, Lieutenant. You see, I'm madly in love with you so I'd really prefer if you could stay, and not leave, and I know how stupid that is because everyone leaves in the end so why should you be any different?')

Riza vanishes through the open bedroom door. Roy longs for sleep.

('But you _are_ different. You _are_. You have to be. Please.')

* * *

The first thing Roy notices upon waking up is that he has a roaring headache, one mean enough to get him gritting his teeth and hissing 'fuck!' under his breath. The second thing is that the alarm clock by his bed claims it is almost one in the afternoon, and the third thing is that, judging from the sound of footsteps in the other room, there is clearly someone else in his apartment.

And when that someone else walks into the bedroom, he realizes that it's Riza Hawkeye.

"Lieutenant," Roy says in surprise (croaks, actually, because his throat is unbelievably sore). "You're…still here?"

"Yes, sir. Considering your condition last night, it didn't seem wise to simply leave you here." She pauses slightly. "I slept on your couch."

"Oh." Roy shifts. His stomach is churning, his head is pounding, the wound along his arm is burning furiously, and goddamn it, he feels too damn _shitty_ for this. "Well. Thank you, Lieutenant. I'm…sorry for wasting so much of your time—"

"No. It's fine, sir. It's part of my job."

"Babysitting your drunk boss is _not_ 'part of your job'," he argues wearily. This is a song and dance that never should have happened. "I can see dragging your drunk boss back home and then ditching him on his front steps, maybe, but not dragging your drunk boss back home and then _watching over him_ all night."

"Abandoning you in the state you were in last night wouldn't have been wise," Hawkeye says quietly. "I wouldn't do that."

Roy looks at her. It strikes him suddenly and for no real reason that his arm has been properly bandaged, that his lieutenant must have done so at some point last night, when he was too drunk and exhausted to bother waking up. He's still wearing his crumbled uniform from yesterday, but the blood-stained jacket is gone, and Roy has a sneaking suspicion that he'd find it in the washing machine. Hawkeye even seems to have cleaned the bedroom floor of any blood splatter.

Something deep inside his stomach begins to twist.

"…No, I know. I know you wouldn't."

There's a silence…a long, awkward silence that settles over the room with a resigned sigh. Roy fiddles with the bed sheets until the quiet becomes more then he can stand.

"You wouldn't just ditch me," he attempts. "You wouldn't just stop supporting me one day. Of course I know that."

Hawkeye doesn't say anything, just looks at him, and her burgundy eyes seem sad. Roy knows she doesn't believe him any more then he believes himself.

"It's just that…" Mustang fumbles hopelessly for words. "It's just that…well, Maes was always my drinking buddy, so…"

(So what's keeping Hawkeye from leaving, exactly? What's keeping her from dying or giving him up? Absolutely nothing, that's what, and wouldn't it be terrible if Roy ended up with two anniversaries of loss to keep track of!

_Two-and-one-half months, two-and-one-half months_…)

"Sir."

He looks up. Hawkeye is standing right in front of him, and the look in her eyes has changed from quietly unhappy to sternly resolute.

"Brigadier General Hughes would not want his death to stop you from accomplishing what you are trying to do. He would not want his sacrifice to be in vain."

"Did I ever say it would be? I don't remember saying I was giving up—"

"And he would not want you to assume that, because he is gone, everyone else will leave you as well. Because that will not happen." Her hands are gripping his shoulders now. "Because I will not stop until you do, sir. Please try not to worry. "

Roy feels drugged, dazed. He pulls back from his lieutenant's grasp; the feel of her fingers against his shoulder blades leaves him reeling.

(What would it feel like under different circumstances? What would it feel like to hold her close, to know that she was touching him because of passion and not concern?)

"I will not leave you, Colonel. I promised to guard your back and I promise to continue to do so as long as you let me."

"You can't keep that promise," Roy blurts out without meaning to. He falters slightly, but continues: "You don't know what'll happen. You could die tomorrow."

No. He should not be saying this.

"You're the damn pragmatist, you should know it more than anyone. You could be six feet under in a week."

_No._

"And of course I won't let _anything_ stop me from reaching the top, even if I make it there alone, even if there is fucking _no one_ standing next to me by that point. Because of course that shouldn't matter, it's the fate of the damn country that should matter, so my petty problems are entirely _unimportant…_!"

Roy doesn't know when he started shaking, but he is now, and when Hawkeye moves forward again she really _does_ embrace him; he leans his head against her shoulder and feels so useless with his eyes stinging the way they are, feels like a goddamn whiny little _kid_…

"I'm tired of everyone dying before me." Roy pretends his voice is steady, even though he's essentially talking in whimpers. "It's getting really fucking old."

"I know, sir," Hawkeye says softly. Her grip on him tightens. "I understand. But I won't allow you to carry your burden alone. Colonel, I will help you. Not even death will be able to get in my way."

And for a while, Roy believes her.

* * *

When he finally kisses Hawkeye, some weeks later, the cut on his arm has almost completely healed up. A faint white scar is all that's left over, and even that's become very hard to see. Roy kisses his lieutenant in front of her apartment—on Friday nights, now, he walks her home—because it seems like the right thing to do at the time. He kisses her without regret, without remorse, and for a few hours afterwards he's as happy as Roy Mustang knows how to be.

But inside he's picturing what her grave will look like (because surely she will die soon, since he officially can't live without her), and inside he's remembering that it's been _three_ months now, since Hughes was killed.

(_It just doesn't get easier._)

"_He who was living is now dead.  
We who are living are now dying."_  
--T. S. Eliot, _The Wasteland_

* * *


	19. 35: letter

**AN--**A hurried, 2 am update. I have a splitting headache at the moment, so I'm keeping this short. First off, no quote for this...didn't feel like one was needed. The title is part of another challenge from a friend. That friend said the first part of this was weaker then the rest--any comments/advice on the first half in particular would be appreciated. My biggest fear is that it comes out as too cliche. Also, on the matter of bolding already italisized words...I've been told it comes across as 'too much' by several people, but for some reason (probably because I'm so used to doing it) no other way of formatting looks quite right. So, for now, I think I'll stick to personal preference on that one.

Last but not least, a huge thanks to all the reviews, 'specially those anon's I wasn't able to thank via reviewer response. Also thanks to **Bizzy **and **Ruingaraf **for not only reviewing multiple chapters of this, but other items I have up as well. (I feel like there's someone else I should be thanking, but my head hurts too damn much for any thinking right now. Sorry if I left someone out!)

* * *

* * *

**Infinity in Your Hands**  
_(35. Letter)_

_Oh, Riza,_ he writes, his first day in Ishbal. _Oh, Riza. This is not right. This is not what I came here to find._

(He ignored his teacher's insults and joined the military, full of pride, full of excitement, and the horizon seemed so fresh and clear.)

_Listen, Riza. There is no __**sanity**__ here! The rest of the men seem so normal until they're brought out to fight, and then some sort of monster takes hold of them, and I don't __**recognize **__them, Riza—I don't recognize myself, and…_

(He writes her letters, day after day: letter after letter that he will never send.)

_And some of the other alchemists here, they…they laugh when people die and no one tells them they're wrong for doing it…_

(Most of what he writes is later fed to the flames by a trembling hand—already, his nerves are shot—but a few letters, messy with lines scribbled over and handfuls of words crossed out, are shoved into his duffle bag and forgotten about, desperately. Years later, when he comes across their yellowed, crumpled remnants, he will find that their words have lost none of their bile.)

_I want to help people. They said that this was a 'minor rebellion', they said alchemists would end the violence quicker…Riza, there is so much blood on my hands, and I'm afraid that I'll drown if it doesn't stop flowing._

(Quickly, now, his hand flying over the page, handwriting made illegible in his frantic haste:)

_I can't get the sand out of my clothes, out of my hair. How did the Ishbalans ever live here? How did they not suffocate in all this damn mess? Oh, Riza. _

_I've killed people already, you know. You'd call me a murderer if you saw what I've done. Your father is screaming in his grave. Everything he taught me is being twisted; everything you showed me is getting distorted because of me._

(He tried to write an apology, once, but the ink smudged across the page and smeared against his hand.)

_The non-alchemists are just as bad. Sometimes they're worse. I saw…this one time, I saw an Ishbalan woman begging this soldier, and she was screaming, and he just kept…he just kept…_

_And once…I was the soldier being screamed at…and I didn't stop either…_

_Riza, don't ever come out here. Don't ever join the military. Forget it. Forget me. I couldn't keep my promise. Please turn your back. Please don't hold out any hope._

_Please, __**please**__, don't follow me to Ishbal._

(And he has no reason for thinking that she would, except that he'd seen glimpses…he'd seen a streak of desire, fast and burning, come into her eyes when she learned he'd joined the military. He has no reason for thinking she'd follow him here, except that she told him she wanted to guard his dreams.

Of course his dreams are dead now, or dying quickly, but he has no way to tell her this because he never sends her letters. He only writes them.)

_I envy you, Riza. Yes, you, alone in that big house with no one to talk to but the ghosts in your dreams. You could, if you wanted, decide to change the world, and it would __**work**__ for you. You would keep pushing forward and nothing would be lost. Fate would cower beneath your determined stare. Luck would worship your every breath. Riza, if you want to help people you will, and they will remember you forever as a hero gone too soon._

_But fate has turned against me, and luck forgot my name. I had the chance to do so much and I let it flood with fire and blood. You told me you wanted to help: well, help by doing what you thought I would do. Because I can't do it…I merely murder, I just bite like a good dog. I'm not strong enough to end the chaos, so if you leave everything up to me it'll just keep going and going…Riza…I know you believe in me and I don't __**want**__ you to! I'm going to let you down! Infinity and all its chances should be in __**your**__ hands, not mine! Look at how I've wasted my tries!_

_I don't know why I'm writing this. I won't send it. I don't want to keep thinking about you._

(Because when he lived with his teacher, she was always 'Miss Hawkeye', or 'Miss Riza' if he felt bold. After her father's death he felt brave enough to drop off the title and simply say her name, just 'Riza': just that wonderful name spilling golden off his tongue.

And now he thinks that if he saw her, he wouldn't dare to murmur a word.)

_All these letters just say the same things! I keep repeating myself…and I still don't understand what it is that I'm writing, or why I'm writing to you. What did you do to me in that big, lonely house? Why can't I stop thinking about you, even __**here**_

_I wonder, do you think people know when they've died? You know I don't believe in any sort of god, but I still can't help but wonder what it __**feels**__ like to be dead. Just chemicals and ashes, just the small pinpricks of your bones wearing away? Do you suppose it's possible that I've already died? If I sent you this letter, would it reach you from the grave?_

(He has to stop, and breathe in deeply, and remind himself that this is no place to crumble and fall. He thinks about Maes, an old friend of his from way back, who rumor has it joined the military and was sent to Ishbal not so long ago. He can't understand why his ever-cheerful best friend would do that, but he supposes that there must be a reason somewhere.

No doubt, wherever Maes Hughes is right now, he is bearing it with a grin and a bad joke. He is not writing the same letter a thousand times over and then feeding it to the fire. He has not had to resort to that macabre ritual, because he is Hughes and he can survive anything with a laugh.

And that is how things should be. There is no point in writing repetitive letters that say nothing to no one.)

_Why can't I forget you, Riza? Why can't I get used to this?_

_The horizon is very dingy here. There's so much smoke and of course I don't help it much. And it's so hot. So dry._

_I don't know who I'm supposed to be helping. I don't know what I'm supposed to do next. I should just burn this letter like all the others, and this time I should just stop writing them. But I know I'll keep this stupid habit up: you are a lifeline, Riza Hawkeye, and you'd had best sever it yourself because I'm far too weak to try._

_Break it, Riza. Turn away and forget me, because I am a murderer now._

_Oh, Riza, _he writes, his thirtieth week in Ishbal. _This is not what I came here to find._


	20. 5: Heiki weapon & heiki fine

AN-- Whew. Ok, typical excuse for slow updates--college, finals, staying up till 7 in the morning watching anime and then promptly sleeping till 2 in the afternoon...ah, the wonders of being a night owl!

Now, to be honest, I actually had no plans on posting this so soon, because until two days ago it was nowhere NEAR being finished. I had maybe the first five or six paragraphs written, and it was really just a random blurb I wasn't planning on doing anything with. But then.

**Then.**

I just had to go and ask for the full box-set of the anime for Wolf's Rain for a Hanukah gift...and I just had to watch it straight through with a friend (go comfort **skywalker05**, she's in the same boat!). **I swear that ending killed me. **Out of desperation--my favorite, soon-to-be-uber-obsessed-about paring died, dammit!--I went and finished this just to give me something happy to feed off of! (Well...as happy as I am capable of writing. Roy's still pretty darn angsty.) Argh. If anyone ever decides to watch Wolf's Rain, I warn you--**bring tissues**.

So this is strange, and wanders, and jumps from angst to less-angst to super-angst to less-angst in the course of 6 or 7 pages...and normally I would care but now I just need something that doesn't end with my favorite characters dying! (Or, you know. Falling off a cliff!)

/Inane babble

* * *

* * *

**Training Session**  
(_5. Heiki (weapon) & heiki (fine)_)

"_You're surprisingly confident, sir."_  
"_I don't know about that. It's a bit like when I fought the homunculus, Lust. I'm called many names…'human weapon', 'monster'…but it's only when I'm fighting a real monster…that I feel truly human."_

He does it rarely, these days. Finding a place in this crowded city where he can burn things undisturbed can be challenging, and anyway he hates trudging home with his uniform stinking of ash. It happens once a month, maybe; just often enough for his skills to stay sharp and at the ready.

Honestly, he doesn't really _like_ practicing his alchemy all that much. Lighting a small fire or burning some unnecessary documents is one thing, but full-scale training of the type the military insists he do every so often requires a different sort of mindset.

It requires he hone his skills of war.

Don't mistake it—Roy Mustang is proud of his talents as an alchemist. It's taken him a lot of work to reach this level of success, and not a day goes by that he doesn't wish he were stronger still.

(_Strong enough to do what he has to do, strong enough to keep all those who follow him alive.)_

But all the praise his alchemy earns him…all the benefits of being a State Alchemist, of having people fear and admire every spark he sends out…all that praise is earned thanks to the fine-tuning of Ishbal, and it isn't much to brag about when the only reason his alchemy is so good is his practicing it on the backs of civilians.

_(In his nightmares, he begs forgiveness from his demons, but during the day he snaps his fingers without hesitation. Just using his power isn't a crime, he will tell himself. All of alchemy hasn't been tainted from his stupid mistakes.)_

Still, on those occasions when Roy does practice, it never takes him long to fall in love with the science all over again. From the moment he first saw one thing become another, he was hooked—that has yet to change. There is something so exciting and powerful and _right_ about alchemy. Even in Ishbal, there would be a quick second after snapping his fingers where all he could feel was the rush of heat against his face, and all he could see were the gorgeous, myriad strips of color…

_(He begs forgiveness for this too, when dreaming. He stammers out apologies for how hypnotized he is by the flame, how willing he is to be seduced by destruction. Even as a baby, he's been told, he was always reaching curiously out for a burning candle and being scolded for his fixation.)_

And then, of course, when he learned from Hawkeye's father…there, things were even more confused. How many secrets that man knew! How many fascinating arrays and intriguing concepts were scrawled out in his notebooks and on his walls (and on his daughter's back). The man's library alone was enough to keep Roy digging hungrily for more knowledge for weeks at a time.

_(Be careful, he sometimes wants to warn the Elric brothers when he sees them tracking some new lead. This road you're on is addicting. You'll forget there's anything but alchemy, if you keep it up. _

_Not that he ever actually says anything of the sort. He understands them better then they realize, and he knows it'd be a waste of breath. They won't listen._

_He wouldn't have.)_

It's so perplexing. On the one hand there's Hawkeye's father, and the obsessed recluse he was…and on the other hand there's the alchemy that turned him _into_ that recluse: bright, and mysterious, and detailed, and so very, _very_ captivating…

Too captivating, Roy knows. No matter what happens in his life, he never wants to turn into what his teacher was.

* * *

He trains hard all day, trying out different variations of strange, new arrays…testing himself, pushing himself, trying to see just how far he can go. By the end of it, he's panting with the effort, and the tips of his fingers are tingling and raw.

Roy can't help but smirk, as he peels off his gloves. He did quite well today; the air is still cloudy and filled with the stench of cinders. His arms ache, but it's a good kind of discomfort—the kind of discomfort that assures him that he is _good enough_.

(_Good enough to be worthwhile. Good enough to save those he loves if the situation ever appears. _

_Good enough to keep __**her**__ with him. Too weak and he could lose her, but for now he is good enough.)_

After, he heads back—not to his apartment, to that tiny, messy place he hasn't actually seen the inside of in weeks, but to her nicer, cleaner, just-as-tiny place. Although he has his own key, he knocks anyway, to keep up appearances.

First Lieutenant Hawkeye has had the day off, so when she opens the door she isn't wearing her uniform. The sight of her in that simple, conservative skirt makes him grin…it looks so much _better_ then the sexless uniform she usually has on. Behind her, Black Hayate is padding off into Riza's bedroom (one of Roy's new favorite places). Mustang struts in, kicks off his shoes and sheds his jacket, collapses on her living room couch with a contented sigh—he makes himself comfortable in this place that feels the most like home.

Hawkeye sits down besides him, and almost before she has a chance to react, Roy is grabbing her by the waist and pulling her down against him. They hold that position, with the lieutenant listening in silence to the reassurance of his heartbeat, for what (Roy wishes) could be an eternity.

But eventually Lieutenant Hawkeye mentions that, since it appears he isn't planning on leaving any time soon, she should start dinner sooner rather then later. After all, she adds, he knows how hungry he gets after a full afternoon's worth of alchemy practice.

When she stands up, Roy reaches out and grabs her fingers. I love you, he thinks, aimlessly. "What're you making?"

"Nothing, sir, if you don't let go of my hand."

"Ok." He sits up, but rather then releasing her fingers he pulls her back into his lap. Hawkeye goes along willingly, which is good, because Roy's seen her in action when it comes to unwanted attention, and frankly, it's a scary sight. "Screw dinner. I'd rather just sit here and…"

"Sir." Her tone is slightly warning, and Roy pouts as he removes his hand from underneath her shirt. "I know you must be starving, Colonel. If I don't start dinner now, we won't be eating until midnight."

Roy, however, is hardly listening. At home, Hawkeye wears her long hair down, and he is too busy delighting in the scent of it. "Mmh. I hate it when you have a day off and I don't. All I'm ever good for on days like today is practicing my alchemy! I sure as hell can't focus on paperwork when you're not there."

"You hardly focus on your paperwork when I _am_ there," she says in exasperation. "Colonel—"

"Roy. Name's Roy Mustang, nice to meet you." He rolls his eyes, planting a soft kiss against the back of her neck. "C'mon, Riza. One of these days, it'd be great if you could actually use my name instead of my title."

"Roy…" She is silent for a moment. "You're awfully affectionate today."

"Even more then usual?" he grins; when she doesn't answer, he tries again: "I just missed you today, that's all. Stuck in an office filled with _guys_…and no attractive blonde to keep me busy…"

Hawkeye twists slightly in his lap, so that her stern eyes are looking right at his. "What happened?"

Startled, Roy asks, "What happened when?"

"Something's different about you tonight." Her gaze softens…she reaches out and brushes an errant lock of hair out of his eyes. "You seem…"

Roy waits, wondering how she will finish that sentence.

(_And knowing full well what she's talking about. How could he not? He just spent a day wrestling with his alchemy…learning anew the terrible power those arrays afford him. How dangerous his alchemy is…how easy it would be to lose control…_

_Roy just spent his day fighting a monster he both hates and adores. As with every time he trains, he saw the same longing to learn all of fire alchemy's secrets that Hawkeye's father saw…had to struggle against being smothered in its secrets the way that man was. What man wouldn't be overly affectionate after keeping an all-too-tempting demon at bay?)_

"You seem relieved," Hawkeye says.

"I am," Roy announces, loud enough that Black Hayate pokes his nose into the room. "Why shouldn't I be?" He wrapped his arms around her, tightly. "I survived a day of Havoc's nasty-smelling cigarettes and Falman's long-winded babble, stuck in an office with no female first lieutenant…I was able to get some training out of the way and avoid paperwork at the same time…and now I'm in your apartment, sitting on your _very_ comfortable couch, arguing with you over whether to have sex now or eat first. By the way, my vote's for the former option.

"_Were_ we arguing about that?" is the dry response, but Hawkeye _does_ lean her head against his shoulder. It feels very nice indeed.

For a while, there's only quiet…but Roy knows his lieutenant is still waiting for him to finish his last sentence. She knows as well as he does there's more on his mind, because Riza Hawkeye knows Roy Mustang better then he knows himself. And sure enough…

"I'm still…human," he says softly.

Hawkeye frowns, obviously not pleased that was ever in doubt. "Of course you are."

He shakes his head. "I don't know. Whenever I'm really using my alchemy to its limits, I…"

"You what?"

_(Doesn't she remember her father? Doesn't she remember Ishbal, and what happened there?_

_Doesn't she remember the demon Roy almost was?)_

"I just forget, sometimes," he murmurs. "I just feel like I don't…like I'm not…sometimes I just don't feel like I'm _actually_…"

And now Hawkeye understands. But she has never spoken about this sort of thing with him…both Ishbal and her father, these were conversations that went unsaid.

"I practiced today, and I know some other soldiers saw me, and even _they_ were amazed," Roy continues thoughtfully. "Even they looked at me like I was…I don't know. Some freak with fire spurting from his fingers. And it pissed me off, it always does—but not enough." He frowns, shaking his head as he remembers. "I still…a part of me was _glad_ they were on edge…_wanted_ them to be…wanted them to wonder just how strong I was. I know a part of me wanted them to fear the Almighty Flame Alchemist." A bitter laugh. "As if I'm so incredible because I can kill faster then they can. Goddamn."

Hawkeye chooses her words carefully. The self-deprecating side of her colonel is his worst…his most dangerous. His self-loathing is the one thing about Roy she wants desperately to change. "That isn't why you learned alchemy. At least, that's not what you told my father…what you told me. You said you wanted to—"

'"To fix the world and save the people.'" Roy's eyes are dull. "And then I went to Ishbal and did the exact opposite."

"You didn't know, Roy. None of us did—"

"And when we found out, the smart people stopped fighting. Armstrong stopped fighting, didn't he? The rest of us…we just kept taking their crap. I must've made such a good military dog…obedient little murderer…!"

"And me?" Hawkeye demands. "Do you consider me a murderer as well?"

"No!" Roy's voice goes shrill with surprise. "Of course I don't—_hell_ no! Why would you even _ask_ that? You are not…"

"Why not? Because I can't kill as fast as you can?" She offers him a weary smile. "Why do you blame only yourself…? Can't you at least share some of the guilt, Roy? This added burden you insist on carrying…can't you ever let it go?"

There is silence, for a very long while. And then, hesitantly, still clutching at his lieutenant, Roy says: "Today, when I was training…it felt like there was no barrier. Either I gloated over what I could do that others couldn't…or I hated myself for being able to kill in ways that others can't. But…there has to be a barrier! I tried a bunch of new tricks out today, I—I really did get a lot done, my alchemy was stronger then it's been in a while…and I was proud even though it's really _nothing_ to be proud of, and…I…"

"Roy." Hawkeye, ever serious, ever careful of her place, nevertheless takes his hands in hers and holds them firmly. "You can use your alchemy for good as well as bad. Hasn't that always been the plan?"

Another long pause. She is still sitting on his lap, but Roy has lost all desire for sex by now. He just wants her there…he just thirsts for her comfort and her strength…

"Today, I made sure to tell myself not to get too carried away. I held myself back, even though I know some inner me wasn't happy about that. And I could actually see myself succeeding…taking down Bradley, helping those weaker then I am…"

Roy smiles. "Like I said. I felt human."

"You_ are_, Roy." Her voice is very quiet. "You _are_."

"Ahh…" He sighs again, and even Hawkeye can't read the emotion in his voice. "I was for a while. And here…whenever I'm with you…then I am. But even _you_ have to admit, in Ishbal I wasn't. And I don't ever want to slip the way I did there, not again. I shouldn't still _want_ to fall that far down! But every time I train a part of me wants to set the whole damn _world_ ablaze just to say…fuck, I don't know! Just to brag that I _can_!"

"That temptation," she points out, "Isn't that foolish sort of thing what makes anyone human?"

"I don't—"

"That sort of craziness…reaching for what you want even though you know you shouldn't dare. Loving and hating and trying to fix everything…even if it shouldn't be possible, even if everything is telling you it's wrong to try…isn't that what we do every day?" She looks at him, calmly. "Isn't that what this is? There are rules…and they are wise rules, that keep soldiers organized and unified…and yet we break them every day. Why bother if you aren't human? Why risk the danger of it if you have no desire, no human thoughts left? What…would be the point…?"

"We_ have_ to!"

"Why?"

"_Because_, damn it!"

"Because…?" Her gaze pins him. It will not let Roy dodge the question.

"Because we have to! _I_ have to! There isn't—being with you, it isn't a choice…it isn't something I can just toss aside…" His eyes finally meet hers full on. "I'm human—most human—when I'm with you. I'm not about to let that go."

(_He won't let it go…with Riza he is human, with Riza he is right. And it's just like when he practices his fire alchemy, isn't it? That struggle to stay the man he wants to be…the man who can be human enough for Riza, wise enough to control his alchemy rather then let it rule him…_

_Isn't this how it always ends up? Roy, treading that fine line, so close to stumbling over…so close…)_

"Hey," he says, suddenly, as if just realizing. "I'm freaking _hungry_. Can we eat now?"

His lieutenant sighs. "I seem to remember warning you about that. You're always hungry after you use your alchemy so much."

"Yeah, yeah…"

(_He hasn't stumbled over yet, though. He's sure of that, at least for now. How could he sit with Riza so near by if he had? _

_Is she right? Is that temptation what makes him human? And if it is, then __**why**__? It's so dangerous…doesn't she realize how dangerous he is?)_

"Well? If you want to eat you have to let me stand up, sir."

(_I hope she never does, Roy thinks fiercely. I hope she never does. I hope for her, I'm always human. _

_I hope for her, I'm always good enough.)_

* * *

* * *

AN-- Comments, requests, etc., all wanted! Crit. too...just because I spazed out and posted this early doesn't mean you shouldn't point out its flaws! (Serves me right for getting so attached to fictional characters.)

Oh, and in case anyone's wondering, the quote comes from volume 14 of the manga and is part of one of the most awesome scenes in the entire series.


	21. 85: surprise attack

AN-- Might go back and re-edit this some more later, since it doesn't seem quite finished. At the moment I'm sick of looking at it.

The idea is from a friend; the quote, from chapter 61 in the manga. (I mixed the translations from my copy of the manga with the online translations...I like 'let's change this country together' better then what my copy says instead, but the rest of that page was very choppy online, so I used the offical book translation for that.)

**Please** let me know what you like/don't like...like I said, I feel another editing job is gonna be needed, and I don't wanna miss anything. This might get confusing, but follow it through and it should hopefully make sense by the end. I'll have more notes on it after the end as well. Thanks!

* * *

* * *

**The Choice  
**_(85. surprise attack.)_**  
**

_"As an individual, I am powerless. That's why I need all of you…I will protect you.  
Live, and let's change this country together."_

Roy comes to groggily, feeling dizzy and sick. His head is throbbing, bruises are forming everywhere he can think of, and his left arm is hurting so badly it _has_ to be broken. Considering his arms are currently tied tightly behind his back, that last bit of discomfort is shaping up to be a real problem.

It takes the repeated blinking of his eyes for his current surroundings to come into some sort of focus. Everything is grey: the dirty walls, the concrete floor, the cracked ceiling above. As far as Roy can tell, the small, dim room he's lying half-conscious in has no furniture, no windows, and just one heavy-looking door. He has a nasty little suspicion that if he tried to turn the doorknob, he'd find it locked.

Not that he could _turn_ the knob at the moment, even if the door was open. Not that he could get himself over to that door in the first place! Sitting up is proving to be a grim difficulty as it is—his head complains sorely with every attempt at movement, and his nausea isn't exactly responding well either.

Finally, though, Roy manages to get himself sitting upright…well, almost upright. (The wall he's leaning against is doing a lot of the work.) Dazed, he glances around once more, and then looks down at himself to see how bad the damage is.

It's pretty bad.

He isn't wearing his gloves (of _course_…they were the first things his attackers must've dealt with), and his hands are tied together with the palms facing inwards, so he couldn't draw a makeshift array if he wanted to. To make matters even worse for his broken arm, his arms are tied at both the wrists and a bit above the elbows—it hurts like utter _hell_, and makes any serious thinking next to impossible, since every thought has to fend its way through a dull haze of pain.

Plus, he's loosing circulation pretty damn quickly. Roy isn't sure how long he's been here, but the ropes have already cut deep into his skin, and he can feel warm blood trickling from the wounds.

The rest of him isn't that much better. His legs are tied in a similar, just as excruciating, fashion at the ankles and knees…and since his right leg feels like it's about to fall off, while the left is merely _very_ uncomfortable, it seems safe to assume that the former is broken as well.

Which is just fucking _perfect_.

Wearily, Roy rests his head against the wall and tries to think. Today is…Tuesday…isn't it? How long was he unconscious? How did he get here? Where the hell _is_ here?

As far as he can recall, he was in his office…it was a typical day, nothing special, and—damn, he can't _remember_! He's been awake for a good ten or fifteen minutes now, but the confused fog in his brain still isn't lifting. Hell, if anything, it's just getting _worse_…

He groans, struggles to focus. It's like his thoughts just aren't sticking around long enough for him to understand them…

_Ok,_ he winces. _Ok. Just gotta focus so I can figure out where I am and get outta here. _

But the last clear memory he has is of being back in his office. For some reason—it annoys Roy that he can't actually _remember_ the reason—the only subordinate in the room with him was Lieutenant Hawkeye. It was just the two of them…and then…there was an attack…?

Roy has a dim recollection of someone bursting into the office, yelling…he's pretty sure he stood up, pretty sure that someone pulled out a gun—or were they using alchemy? —and took a step towards him, pretty sure there was someone else behind him who hit him over the head with…something…

But that doesn't make sense. How could someone have managed to get past both Roy and Hawkeye without either one of them noticing? Why doesn't he remember Hawkeye—

_Shit!_

Roy's stomach clenches. _Where is his lieutenant?_

Whoever his attackers were, obviously they managed to drag him here…but what about Hawkeye? Had she escaped? Been injured? Been…oh, _shit_…had she even survived at all?

Frantic now, Mustang struggles to focus on the incident, fights to recollect. It's useless. No matter how hard he thinks back, the entire event remains blurry, uncertain…he can't picture the faces of his assailants, can't even bring to mind what time of day it was that they attacked, or where he was when—

No, that's not true. He was in his office. Wasn't he?

_This is fucking ridiculous! Why can't I remember? I knew where it happened three seconds ago!_

Roy doesn't understand this at all. His headache's getting worse, not better, and he has to struggle to remember _anything_! It shouldn't be this hard…he's a colonel, a state alchemist, he…is that right? Did he pass the state entrance exams yet? Wasn't he still training for—no, that's insane…he's been stuck to the government for years!

Right?

After a while (or maybe not…time doesn't seem to be passing right, here, and he has no idea how long it's been), Roy has to give up. Nothing's sticking, and anyway, it's so much easier to just lie back against the wall and wait for something to happen…

_Hawkeye!_

He straightens up with a jerk, which is agony on his broken arm; horror and fury flood through him, and he feels sick all over again. _How the hell could I forget about her? Even for just a few minutes! Something…something __**has**__ to be wrong here…!_

There are footsteps outside, coming towards him. Roy stares, sluggishly, at the door; he would come up with some creative plan for slipping free when the door opens if everything didn't _hurt_ so much…

Hours, or maybe only a few seconds, go by. Roy waits, although he doesn't remember what it is he's waiting for—someone to walk in? Someone to rescue him? Hawkeye to show up?

Damn! Worry returns, cold and shrill. Where _is_ she? What _happened_ to her?

Footsteps again—this time the door opens. Roy squints and tries to see if he recognizes the man who's staring at him now, but it's hard considering the stranger's features are buried in shadow.

(Which really shouldn't make sense…the room isn't _that_ dark.)

But Roy accepts this, as he's accepted that he's trapped in this claustrophobic room, as he's accepted that he has at least two broken limbs and any minute now he might pass out from the pain they're spurting. As he's accepted that he has _no fucking idea _where his first lieutenant is, or what's happened to her, or what condition she is in.

No idea. Not a clue.

Come to think of it, Hawkeye's being M.I.A. isn't the sort of thing he'd normally accept, but for some reason Mustang doesn't understand, the first words out of his mouth are _not_, 'I'll rip your throat out if you've hurt her.'

He doesn't actually _have_ any first words: he opens his mouth to talk and only a muted rasp comes out. Another thing that doesn't connect…Roy's throat is pretty much the only part of him that doesn't hurt at the moment, so there's no reason why his voice should be gone. But it is, and so Roy merely watches the stranger and wonders if it's his headache that's making things not add up.

The other man is smirking; at least, Roy thinks he would be if he could see him more clearly. What he _can_ see is that the stranger is lean, with a strangely graceful feel to the way he moves. His hair is a nondescript shade of brown (although wasn't it blond when he first showed up?), and so is the clothing he's wearing. Most noticeable is the strip of fabric he's got wrapped on his upper right arm: it's black, and there's an insignia on it that Roy knows he's seen before…he _knows_ he has…but he just can't figure out where. It feels as though he's dealt with the wearers of that insignia a hundred, a _thousand_ times…but now…he just doesn't remember…

"So you're up, eh, asshole?" The man's voice is rough, as if he's spent his short-or-long life smoking more cigarettes in a day then even Havoc can manage. "About damn time. Who the hell you think you are, keeping us waiting?"

Roy tries talking again, with no luck, which only seems to piss the other man off further.

"What, you too scared shitless to speak? Hnn…little maggot. Acting like you don't know who I am. You wanna stay alive, you better start working on your manners." He chuckles. "Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to stare?"

"You…I…know you…?" Roy manages to gasp out. Talking hurts as much as the rest of his throbbing body does.

The stranger's features are still blurred, but the way his fists begin to clench and unclench show how angry he's getting. "Huh? You gonna act like you don't remember? Bastard!"

Roy tries to focus. Does he know this person? _Does_ he? The voice doesn't _sound_ like anything he knows! It would be so much easier if Mustang could just see his face…!

"Guess I shouldn't be surprised, you cocky piece of dirt." The man starts walking closer, but his features remain illogically undefined and fuzzy. "Just like everyone says…you think you're too damn good to bother with rebels like us. Isn't that right?"

"Mmh…" Roy feels dizzy again. His head starts pounding with even more intensity then before.

"Nothing to say, huh? Is the Flame Alchemist still too important to waste his time with scum of the earth like me? I bet that's what you're thinking even now! Bastard! You should be begging for your life!"

His foot swings out and connects with Roy's ribcage, and for the next few minutes all the Flame Alchemist can do is hunch over and gasp as he tries desperately not to vomit. Fire of a different nature eats at his insides, and he wonders half-crazily if this is what it feels like to burn…

"Ooh. Does that hurt?" Again, the man kicks him, this time in the side. "How about that? Feel nice? Huh?" Another kick. Another.

Roy curls up as best he can, considering the way he's tied up, but each kick still hurts worse then the last one.White-hot pain slices through muscle and bone, and he realizes numbly that this is it, this is all he has left…he is going to die here…

"Hah! That's right, dipshit, keep squirming!" the man gloats. He reaches down and grabs Roy by his hair, yanking his head back painfully; Roy has nowhere to look but right at his attacker's face, and _still_ it remains a blur! "You wouldn't talk to us when we tried doing things nicely, but maybe now you'll listen. Now that your waste of a life depends on you doing what we say."

"Nnh…" Roy squints up at this faceless creature. "F-Fuck you," he half-sighs, without really knowing why.

"Stubborn brat!" His attacker hits him across the face, hard. "You can't bullshit your way out of this one, you know. Roy Mustang…hah! You always manage to get what you want." He drops Roy, who collapses with a low moan. "Not this time. Not when we've got what's most important to you. This time you'll do what we want, or you'll fucking regret it!"

As if to prove his point, he stomps down hard—on Roy's broken leg. Even Mustang, stubborn as he is, can't keep from screaming.

"That's enough." Over his groans, Roy hears another unfamiliar voice…someone else, also male, also tall and lean, also faceless, enters the room. This new stranger shakes his head, and his tone is nothing if not amused: "You don't want to kill him. Not yet, anyway. Not till he makes his choice."

Choice? Roy struggles to lift his head as his attacker moves back to join the newcomer. For a minute, red flashes of pain hover before his eyes, and it is only after they fade that he really gets a good look at this new man.

This new man, who did not enter the room alone.

Hawkeye is with him. He has a strong grip on her left arm, and there is an air of condescending tolerance about him as he pulls her forcefully into the room. Roy can tell even in his dazed state that something is wrong with his lieutenant—neither her hands nor her legs are bound, and in any normal situation she could easily have beaten the shit out of her captor by now. But this is obviously _not_ a normal situation, because she allows herself to be dragged into the center of the room, where she stands, wavering slightly. The man stays beside her, his hand still holding tightly to her arm.

Roy stares into her amber eyes and realizes how unfocused they are. Panic hacks at his insides, hurting worse then even the most severe of his wounds, and he tries_ desperately_ to pull his hands free. He has to _help_ her…

"Stop squirming." Mystery Man Number One is clearly longing to stomp on Roy's fucked-up leg again. "You've got a little choice to make. And you'd better make the right one, or else you'll—"

"Calm down," Mystery Man Number Two interjects, pleasantly enough. "There's no need to get so riled up. We'll simply explain to Colonel Mustang his options, and then he'll decide between them. Isn't that right, Lieutenant?"

Hawkeye doesn't answer. She just continues to look at her commanding officer, watching him with that strange, distant gaze.

Confusion attacks the colonel afresh. The room—the world—everything—everything spins, everything twists—nothing is _right_—

It has been a day or it has been a year, and the men are still talking to him. The calm one is discussing choices—unknown choices—and the angry one is leering at Roy's lieutenant and cracking his knuckles. Mustang's limbs burn with discomfort from being tied together for so long, but there are moments when his two broken limbs don't seem to hurt as much as they should…and then they are seized with fury again as acid seems to swirl up and down his spine…

"Make your choice, Flame Alchemist."

But no choices have been given, and which Mystery Man was the one to speak? Why won't Hawkeye defend herself? Why won't anything start to add up?

"See? Didn't I tell ya?" demands Mystery Man Number one. "Didn't I say? He won't talk. Just sits there, just _gawks_. Acts like he's got no fucking clue who we are or what we want! _Bastard!_" Furious, he kicks at his victim again.

Roy cries out, and Hawkeye flinches openly. (_Which she doesn't do. Which she never does._) "No," she says, faintly. "No."

The second man speaks softly now, his eyes fixed on Roy's pale face. There is a new flatness to his voice, a new irritation that suggests the colonel's time is running low. "You know who we are. You have 'dealt with us'…yes, I suppose that's how you'd put it. You have _dealt_ with us many times before. And now we will deal with you."

"Deal with you," Mystery Man Number One repeats. "Oh yeah we will." He sounds gleeful, and it's all so very _strange_…

"I have explained the choices many times," continues the second man in that same flat, annoyed tone. "I will even be so kind as to explain them again. As you can see—"

"No," Hawkeye says again, this time with more force. "Don't listen to them, Colonel. Don't listen…!"

"Riza…" he tries to choke out, struck by her insistent, piercing eyes.

"You can't listen to them, sir! Colonel, you _can't_—"

"Enough," snaps the second man, and tightens his grip on her arm. His hand twists painfully into her skin, and his other arm rises slightly as if to strike her should she dare say another word. "Colonel Mustang, you know your choices. You will give up, or we will kill her. Those are the only options you have."

"Give up…?" Roy breathes, bewildered. "What…"

"You will give up on your goal to change this country. You will allow yourself to fail. Roy Mustang's great legacy will end here and now. Or else…"

_Or else they'll kill her!_ _Or else they'll kill my first lieutenant!_

And it shouldn't make sense, it shouldn't ring so true, there shouldn't be a way for these men to actually be able to carry out their threats—shouldn't be a way for them to so easily ruin his plans—they shouldn't even _know_ about his plans…

But they _do_, and it _does_ make sense, and there _is_ a way, even if Roy Mustang could never explain it in words. He isn't wondering why or if, he isn't trying to figure it all out. He…just…_knows_…

These men will make good on their promise. They will kill her if he decides to try and carry on. They will not kill _him_ (they won't, he knows they won't); the Flame Alchemist will be allowed to continue his path to the top.

But they will steal his first lieutenant away…if he does continue to climb, he will have to do so all alone…

"Why…?" he tries to protest, "Why do you want to…"

"Hah, listen to him. Acting all innocent—hmph! You know why, dipshit, so stop screwing around!"

"Sir!" Hawkeye pleads. "Sir, you can't just quit and walk away. You have to do what you said you would do, you have to change the country! _That_ is the most important thing, not what happens to me. I know you! I know how important this dream has been for you!"

_Yes,_ the colonel murmurs, _yes, you do know. Only you…only you have ever __**really**__ known…_

"It's important to me, too! It's important to all your subordinates. You can't give up on them. Colonel…you can't just brush everything you've ever dreamt of having aside…"

_But I have dreamt of having you, as well. I have dreamt of far too much._

"Make your choice!" shouts the first man. "Goddamn it, open your mouth!"

"Think reasonably," soothes the second. "You wouldn't want anything to happen to your lovely lieutenant. You wouldn't want her to die because of you as well. You've already killed your best friend. You wouldn't want _another_ corpse at your feet."

_I don't want Riza to die. Why can't they threaten my life instead?_

"Colonel Mustang!"

"Hurry up, maggot! Tell us what you've decided!"

"Surely you wouldn't want to put your selfish aims above the _lives_ of your subordinates. Surely you don't want them to have to _sacrifice_ themselves for your silly little dreams. It's your mission or your lieutenant, and you have to let one die."

_What the hell am I supposed to __**do?!**_

"Choose!" the first man shrieks—

* * *

Roy Mustang jerks awake with a start. His stomach is heaving, cold sweat is trickling down his spine, and he knows without question that he was shouting in his sleep just now.

It was the thunder that crashed into the dream and scattered it, he thinks in a daze. It was thunder that kept him from having to make a choice. It was all just a bad vision, just his usual night-ghosts come to play with him again. Roy is used to them, and to nightmares, and this one shouldn't feel like anything more.

But it does. Because usually his delusions involve only him…usually, he is being murdered, or tortured, or something else equally cheerful and lighthearted.

He's never dreamt about _this_, before. Never about having to choose between his desire and his need. He wants to fix his mistakes so badly…he wants to have his first lieutenant in his arms so very much…

(Desire and need: which is which? Roy desires his lieutenant but he needs to accomplish his plans because he desires to save the people but he needs Riza by his side…)

Roy is certainly more clear-headed now that he's awake. He tells himself quite sternly that is was just a dream; there's certainly no need to worry over it. No need at all.

(But he hasn't made his choice yet, and he doesn't know which to pick. If the situation should somehow ever arise…)

The Flame Alchemist looks through his window at the rain and lashing winds, noting how garish the city looks when bathed in wild lightning's glare. The sky is tarnished red-orange-yellow-red from the angry flashes lighting up against the clouds. Knowing that he's expected in the office early the next morning, he lies back down and closes his eyes.

(It takes a long time for him to finally chase sleep down. It takes a long time for him to forget that dream.)

Outside, the storm rages on, and it strikes Roy as he falls asleep that, colored as it is, the world almost looks as if it's been set on fire and destroyed…

* * *

AN- Some comments:

1) I know, I know, using 'it was all a dream' is the worst ending in the world to go for, but I had my reasons for heading that route. First off, there's the simple truth that there was no way in hell I was gonna be able to come up with a plausible situation, with bad guys who could actually carry out what they threatened and who actually had an interesting motive/backstory, in a single one-shot. That's, like, multi-chapter fic worthy in of itself. So I went for the dream idea because it allowed me to focus more on how Roy would react in such a situation, without worrying over every tiny detail.

Also, I'm really not sure what Roy _would_ choose! I think a good case can be made for either side, so leaving it as a dream allowed me to have a more open-ended ending. (I'd be interested to hear what you think he'd do, reviewers.)

2) Like I said...I don't know what Roy's choice would actually be if such a situation showed up in the anime/manga. But. I know what I'd like it to be...and I do have my suspicions. So, if I had to say...between Hawkeye and his mission...actually, my idea of which choice he'd pick is implied--very, _very _vaguely--in this one-shot...if you didn't catch it, reread the last few sentences again.

3) I enjoy abusing Roy. Way too much. (It's kinda weird.)

Whoo for way-too-long author's notes.


	22. 84: if you would only turn around

AN-- If this looks familiar to anyone, there's a good reason for it: as of ten minutes ago it was part of _The Colonel and the First Lieutenant_. It was written way back when...back before I decided to do any of the Royai themes besides this one. Now that I have a collection full of themes, I figured it'd make sense to put this where it belonged.

I cleaned up the writing, but it still equals old, and therefor not as well-done as the newer pieces in this collection. I'm not expecting reviews on it, really--_especially _if you've already reviewed it the first time! (Although that's doubtful, since this was first posted like three years ago.) However, if you want to comment on it...I certainly wouldn't mind!

* * *

**Of Your Own Desire, Trapped**_  
(84. If you would only turn around)_

Riza once thought that if she ignored what her heart was telling her long enough, in time the message would fade. She has since learned that she was wrong.

Dead wrong.

She drifts along in her colonel's shadow, watching as if from a distance—

_But she is so very close…_

— as he moves from day to day and woman to woman seemingly without a care. Riza knows that's not true, of course: she knows how many cares he actually has, how terribly he suffers when he's surrounded by only solitude, empty in the dark of night. She knows he clings to these different-but-all-the-same women out of desperation. She knows how much Roy Mustang hates to be alone.

That doesn't make it any easier for her.

Riza doesn't like to admit it, but lately she's been waking up each morning feeling trapped. She chose this path herself, and she doesn't regret it—it's just that she's not sure how she's supposed to deal with these new complications.

Riza, way back in Ishbal, when the choice to follow Roy, to support and protect him, was just then being presented to her, had thought out her answer carefully, precisely. It's in her nature to do things like that, always has been. A part of her had known from the start what her decision would be, but still…even if it was merely just force of habit, she wanted to reason out everything nice and logically.

She told herself how dangerous supporting a man like Roy Mustang would be; she mused over every possible consequence, and so very few of them were happy. She acknowledged how slim the chances were for a cheerful future if she should one day follow him.

_(But in the end—and beginning—Riza realized how futile her cautiousness really was. As much as she hated and mistrusted on-the-spot decisions, she knew the moment she first saw Roy that she would assist him, continue after him unto the ends of the earth. Her mind was made up the minute he looked at her…the instant she realized how intense his obsidian gaze was as he told her point-blank that he would one day change the world.)_

In giving herself over to such an uncertain future, Riza knew she'd have to be careful. She planned for everything—for what would happen if he failed, if he was betrayed, if he was killed. His mission became hers almost overnight; one day's time, or so it seemed in looking back, and she was willing to die for him, for his goals. But losing herself heart and soul in idealism was not something Riza was accustomed to doing, and so she did her best to outline every step of the way, to make things easier. She planned for everything she could think of.

But she didn't think there was anything left buried in her subconscious that could surprise her, and so she didn't plan on falling in love with him.

Left without any idea of what to do, Riza aimlessly lingers. The mission is still hers as well as his, the ending still hidden and unclear—only the pain is different. Only the fervent longing is new.

She hates how things have worked out, to be completely honest. Did she ever ask for this? Did she ever ask to suddenly be made aware, as if she'd only really just opened her eyes for the first time, of how striking his gaze is, how appealing his demeanor? Did she ever ask to be awoken in the middle of the night by dreams so shocking in their desire that they leave her blushing?

And then there's Roy, who goes out and flirts with anything with breasts _besides her_; who has dated at _least_ once every female in the city _except for her_; who has joked _more_ then once that he's seen the inside of plenty of female bedrooms _(just not hers)_. Riza refuses to ask herself why that is, because she is not some preteen adolescent with a mindless crush. She isn't about to go look in the mirror and ask herself if maybe he'd like her better with brown hair, or if perhaps her eye color was too unsettling for him.

_(He'd told her once, drunkenly, that her amber eyes looked red in certain types of light; that if he looked hard enough, he could see every soul he'd ever killed reflected in their haunting stare.)_

No: Riza Hawkeye is determined to at the very least act her age about the whole thing. There is work to be done and there are lives to be lived, and wouldn't it be so much easier if these damn feelings would just _leave_ already? She never wanted this, after all.

But she has it, whether she wants it or not. She has that peculiar twisting within the chest and the rapid-fire beating of the heart that makes it hard to breathe at the most unexpected times. She has a throat that goes dry when he grins at her, hands that clench when he escorts some _fine young lady_ out for the evening. She has…

She has a desk covered in files she still needs to fill out, and she has to stop working on them every time some woman calls him at the office because she's so angry she can't see straight.

(_Riza doesn't like these emotions. She doesn't trust them. They're too unpredictable._

_She can't escape them_.)

Riza is loyal to her colonel, would die for him in a heartbeat, would never even _consider_ being anyone else's right-hand woman. She will never let her own wayward and traitorous feelings drive her away. She'd _never_ think about leaving.

So she is left with the hollow aching in her chest, the irrational doubts that flood her mind at the most random times of day. If she transferred out, she's reasonably sure the ache would fade with time…but she simply can't do that, for whatever reason. It's almost like she's chosen to suffer like this.

Actually, that's _exactly_ what it's like.

She's chosen to stand by Roy, even as her soul crumbles with need. She's chosen to _put up_ _with it_, as if throwing her head back and gritting her teeth is all she has to do to survive.

(_If only it was that easy._)

Trying to block a million pinpricks of yearning attacking her every time the colonel smiles…that's hardly an easy task. Worst of all is early morning, when she's just woken up—she's faced all over again with the idea that _his_ bed isn't nearly as empty as hers.

Riza hates how goddamn _catty_ she's started to sound over all this. But it isn't something she can help.

If he would only turn around and see her there. If he would only notice the quiet, loyal, amber-eyed subordinate standing behind him. If…if…if…

According to Hughes, Roy ignores her as a candidate for romantic interest because he's afraid—afraid he'll contaminate her, afraid he'll get too close, afraid that he'll fail her, somehow. It's safer, Hughes points out, if he dates girls he doesn't know and doesn't care about. Riza isn't sure if she believes him or not, but if he _is_ telling the truth….

Then, _God_, is Roy being stupid.

Not that it matters all that much in the end.

In the end, all the hesitant maybes and curious guesses never amount to anything—in the end, all that's left is Riza sitting and watching her colonel go on with his life, day by day. All that's left is for her to wish she could be a bigger part of his life then she already is.

If he would only turn around…

Riza is a pragmatic person, but these emotions aren't, and somewhere along the way she has ended up drifting in her colonel's shadow, waiting and wanting, with no way out.


	23. 14: covered eyes

AN-- Hey, thanks, ffdotnet. Way to change your rules on line-breaks out of nowhere, so that I had to go back and edit everything I've ever posted to make it make sense again. (Not to mention, half the stuff in my fav's list no longer reads correctly.) Also, good job on no longer allowing brackets in summaries. Not like I used those or anything!

Rgh.

Very pleased with this one...writing guilt from Riza's perspective and still keeping her in character was a challenge, but it was an angle I haven't explored much yet, so I was glad for the chance to try something new. She still might get a bit chatty at parts, but overall I'm happy with her.

This is kind of a more serious take on that last scene of them in the anime. (You know...the one where she feeds him apple chunks and he plays with her hair, proving once and for all that Royai is cannon awesomness.) So, er, yeah...spoilers for anime ending in a big way.

* * *

**Just**_  
(14. covered eyes)_

"He's recovering quite nicely. As long as nothing becomes infected, at this point I think it's safe to say he'll be fine."

Hawkeye allowed herself some quiet relief at the doctor's words. For the past three weeks, doubt had been gnawing sharply at her insides, and it was nice to know her decision hadn't been a foolish one. Really, there had been no other choice—with the loss of the Führer the military was in chaos, so leaving said Führer's killer in a public hospital didn't strike her as very wise—and from the moment he was stable enough to be moved, she knew she'd be moving him here.

(Here: her apartment, small but neat. Here: a bedroom once inhabited only by Riza Hawkeye, now crammed with medicine and bandages and pitchers of water kept cool but not cold.

Here: the only place she could be sure Roy would be safe.)

Still, however necessary moving the general into her bedroom's relative protection—for she would defend him from any intruder unto death—might have been, it didn't leave Riza feeling very assured of his survival. Her bedroom was not a hospital; she didn't have the proper equipment or the proper medical know-how. Hawkeye knew she'd been very fortunate to find a doctor who knew what he was doing and didn't ask too many questions, but still. It worried her.

But now the doctor was saying her general would recover, and at long last the doubt at her choices began to fade. He would be all right. Roy would be all right…

* * *

He _was_ all right. Nothing became infected, the doctor's visits came less often, and Roy was aware enough of his surroundings to understand what exactly was going on.

(The military government a wreck, the people bewildered and clamoring for answers. The leader dead, the leader's lackeys fleeing to wherever they could go. The leader's killer being hailed both as a demon and a saint.)

Riza's care didn't lessen; she still spent the greater part of each day at his bedside. For the past few weeks, she'd left the room only to walk Hayate or put together a hastily made meal.

(Only one—she could rationalize the time it took to make dinner as necessary, since she did need to eat, but there was no reason why she should leave her general's side for _three_ separate meals. One would suffice, for her.)

And now that she had pushed her couch into the bedroom, she could sleep by his side as well. Her back ached after weeks on the lumpy thing's cushions, but that was no big concern. She only ever slept for a few distracted hours at a time, busy as she was watching over Roy, and the doctor had begun to comment on the dark circles under her eyes.

But none of that mattered, of course. The doctor had been right, Roy was healing quickly now, and Riza's mistake—she'd been _slow_, she'd been so _slow_, she'd practically given Archer _permission_ to shoot! —had not cost the general his life.

(Riza Hawkeye was no alchemist, and as a rule did not put too much faith in the science, but had he died that miserable night, had she lost him…she would have _forced_ herself to learn it, and she would have brought him back. Doing so was against the rules, it was impossible, it had cost the Elric Brothers so much and she had seen those consequences…

But Riza would have found a way. She would not have allowed her general to stay dead, to rot in the ground for her transgressions. She would have brought him back.

She was often called practical, but this wasn't true. Not in the way everyone assumed it was.)

* * *

There were problems, though. The political situation remained volatile, with an interim government being hastily thrown together to keep some semblance of order around. Roy's future as part of this new government was still unclear; there were murmurings of a tribunal being set up, but with every week this mysterious trial was pushed further and further back, until it seemed Roy would die of old age before it was ever called into session. There were also whispers of rumors that promised either promotion or execution, depending on the hour, but whenever Havoc dropped by with the latest news, it was always the same:

The public was busy frothing over the fact that a literal monster had led them for so many years. Excuses were being spat from officials at what Roy would probably consider an amusingly frantic rate, but so far few were being bought.

Not to mention, said a grinning Havoc the last time he showed up, right now the only soldiers trusted by the citizens of Amestris were those soldiers who had helped to bring Bradley down. If the public got its way, Roy could benefit far greater then Hawkeye trusted to hope…

But there were still plenty of higher-ups who maintained a secret loyalty to the homunculi, there were still plenty of ambitious cowards who would see Roy kept permanently out of the way, and so Riza refused to drop her guard. Her general, now that the health risks were relatively under control, was safest in her bed, and for now that was exactly where he was going to stay.

(Didn't she realize, Havoc demanded once, that whatever fate befell Roy would also befall her? Didn't she understand that if things _did_ go wrong for him, they would only go _worse_ for her? She should make some sort of plan for that, he insisted.

Truthfully, the idea had brushed the back of Hawkeye's mind a spare time or two, but she'd ignored it diligently. Whatever her general faced, she faced as well—that was only right. If they tried to harm him she would stop them. If they rewarded him, she would stay by his side until she was no longer of any use. That was always how it had been. That was always how it would be.

Anyway, she didn't have time to waste wondering on how to save herself. Roy was the only person worth worrying over now.)

* * *

Riza was dusting: it was Saturday, and Roy was sleeping, and she had nothing to do otherwise. Havoc wasn't due to stop by for at least another few hours, and Hayate didn't need to be walked. So she dusted a room kept spotless enough to make her fussing redundant, because she refused to keep idle when it still felt like there was something _else_ she could do.

(Something _else_ she could do to help him, to keep his recovery as pain-free as possible, to speed the process up. Something _else_.

Amazing that she still trusted herself to protect him, Riza thought, when she'd already gone and failed him before.)

Her general murmured in his sleep, reached out a bandaged arm to brush at some imagined ghost. Hawkeye had been surprised, when she'd first brought him to the room, to learn how vocal a sleeper he was. He cried out and whimpered almost constantly; he fidgeted, moaned, and whispered tired pleas.

It made sense, though. A man who only smirked and showed that empty mask during the day…it made sense that everything he ignored in public would find him when he was alone in the dark.

(So maybe _that_ was why Riza stayed in the bedroom so persistently, even once the health threats began to fade. If she could stay by him, he wouldn't have to be alone.)

Roy murmured again. Hawkeye moved to dust the nightstand by the bed, wondering as she did so what demons he was facing now.

She took her eyes off him for a few seconds, to focus on the dusting. When she turned back around, his eyes were open, and he was staring at her. Startled, Hawkeye took a slight step back, into the nightstand, and it shook slightly. The lamp sitting on top of it also shook, and Roy winced as a sharp beam of light caught him directly in the eyes.

Eye.

Her general's remaining eye was still sensitive from all the smoke and fire of that last fight, and light bothered him more then it would others at the moment. Not a permanent effect, according to the doctor, but still.

"Sorry," she said, on instinct. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't realize you were awake. Do you need anything? Some water, or some—"

"Stop it," Roy said. He sounded angry. "Just _stop_."

"Sir?" Hawkeye repeated, uncertainly. She wasn't sure how to react. Roy had been keeping quiet ever since he first fought off unconsciousness and was told that he was in her bed, that Archer had shot him…that Archer had shot him in the eye. He'd been pensive and brooding, after that, and Hawkeye didn't exactly know why.

(Although she could guess. She'd caught him glaring into the mirror that hung on the wall opposite her bed one morning. She'd watched as he raised a few, scarred fingers to the cloth that covered his eye. She saw him stroke the stark, black material, as if in disbelief that it was really there, and she saw that moment of hesitation as he started to remove it.

He didn't take the eye patch off, ultimately; his fingers trembled and he lowered them in a rush. But Hawkeye had already seen the wound underneath, had stared down on it in horror as he lay unconscious on the mansion's steps—an ugly, ruined stretch of skin.

That afternoon, while he dozed, she took the mirror down and threw it in the trash.)

Now, the general was glaring at her the way he'd glared into that mirror. "General Mustang," she tried, "Does something hurt? I've started to cut back on your pain medication, but if—"

"You're unhappy," he interrupted. When she started to protest, he cut her off with a curt frown. "I _know_ you are. I can tell. You're upset and you're…you're blaming yourself. For this." He didn't say what 'this' was. He didn't have to. "I know you think it's your fault I'm wearing this stupid thing now."

"That's enough," Hawkeye said, calmly. "You shouldn't be worrying about this now. Right now your focus should be on your health…"

"I've been watching you!" Roy cried out. "The past week—you thought I was sleeping, but I wasn't. I was watching you clean, or talk to Havoc, or—" (and here he nodded at the couch) "or sleep. Which you never did enough of. You spent too much time bothering over me."

Riza took a deep, careful breath. "General."

"I've been watching you, and I _know_ you're upset! You always think you have to be goddamn _perfect_, but it isn't your fault I lost the eye. I don't know why you can't just accept that."

"Who says I haven't accepted it?" she responded lightly. Maybe he would drop it. Maybe he would—

"You haven't accepted shit," he said flatly. "I know you, Hawkeye. I know when you're pissed at yourself, and it doesn't take a genius to realize what you're pissed about. You think it's your fault that I was hurt so badly, and I don't—know—_why_!"

(How could he know that much about her? It didn't seem possible. It didn't seem _right_. She had always hidden her thoughts. How could Roy Mustang find them?)

There was silence. Riza discovered that she had twisted the dust rag into knots. Her fingers gripped it with such strength that her knuckles were white.

"…It _was_ my fault," she said softly, after a bit. "It was my mistake for not reaching you in time. The circumstances don't matter. I pledged to protect you, but I didn't follow through. It was my fault."

"Are you _blind_?" Roy stared at her, fire in his gaze. "Are _you_ the one whose eyes are covered?! How can you _think_ that!? What happened to your practical side, damn it? Isn't dwelling in self-pity _impractical_ for you?"

"I'm not dwelling on it," Hawke said coolly. "But I acknowledge the situation. I acknowledge what I did."

"Bullshit, you're not dwelling on it," he snarled. "I've been watching you, remember? You wince every time I _cough_. That's not fucking healthy, Riza. It wasn't your fault, and you can't keep _torturing_ yourself by thinking it was."

"You act the same way," Hawkeye informed him, "when you think about Brigadier General Hughes."

It was not said with malice. She did not mean to wound him, only to make him see. To make him understand why she took the blame upon her shoulders, why she layered it on so thick.

Roy faltered and fell silent. He stared at the bed sheets for a while. Then: "Get me a mirror."

"Sir…?" Hawkeye asked, not fully understanding.

"A mirror. There was one hanging here before, wasn't there? Let me see it."

But of course, that mirror had been thrown away already. Riza looked, but other then the bathroom mirror, which was attached to the wall, the only one she could find was a small hand-mirror gathering dust in a desk drawer. She wiped it off, still not comprehending her general's motives, and handed it to him.

He looked at it for a while, turning it over in his hands a few times. Riza felt questions burning the end of her tongue, but said nothing. The expression on his face made the thought of interrupting him a repugnant one…

Then—

In one swift move, Roy grabbed the edges of his eye patch and yanked it off, frowning thoughtfully. Hawkeye let out a soft cry and moved to stop him, but she was too late; he was looking into the mirror now, looking with his one good eye at the ruined flesh of the other one.

There was absolute silence, then. Hawkeye didn't speak. She had to remind herself to breathe.

"Oh," Roy finally said. "Oh."

Riza waited.

"I thought…" Her general shook his head slightly, and forced out a laugh. "I guess I thought maybe it wasn't as bad as everyone said it was. I thought maybe it was just…scratched, or swollen or something. Thought maybe they could fix it. Stupid…I knew that eye was too fucked up to be saved. Guess I just didn't want to swallow the poison right away."

"Sir…"

"Stupid. That was really stupid of me…should've left the damn patch on, huh? Useless…" He tried smiling this time, but it came across as every bit as fake as his laughter. "They don't make automail eyes, do they? Could use one of those if they do. Heh."

Now, unbelievably, he reached up to graze the scabbed-over wound with his fingertips—but Riza had seen enough. She moved swiftly forward and grabbed his arm.

"You shouldn't do that," she told him, with just the slightest quiver in her tone. "It's still too raw a wound, you could reopen it." Her voice went quiet again. "And it would hurt."

"I don't care." The general was staring at her hand around his wrist. "Riza—"

"It's Lieutenant Hawkeye," Riza said sternly, but _Gods_, she had no idea _why_. It felt…_nice_, hearing her first name in his mouth. The way he pronounced it, putting a silky emphasis on the first syllable…it left a tender, comfortable buzz in the pit of her stomach. Gods, why was she _protesting_?

Roy's good eye narrowed. He gave her a calculating stare. "It is? I've been in your bed for how many weeks and we're still not on a first-name basis?"

"Sir—"

"If we're not, if I just _imagined_ we were closer then we are…then what am I doing here?" Roy demanded. "Why did you spend so much time worrying over me, when I'm not even someone who can use your first name?"

"Because…you are…" Riza's breath was coming in halting gasps by now. She had to struggle to make herself understandable. "You are…"

(He was her general. He was her life.)

"Was it shame? Was that it?" Roy was getting too excited; even as her senses were drenched in a muddled, confusing wave, Riza noticed the way he strained to sit upright. He was pushing himself way too hard. "You were just annoyed because you'd made a mistake, and Riza Hawkeye doesn't _like_ to make mistakes! Or did—did you just _feel bad_ for the poor, blind idiot who didn't have the sense to duck? Was it _pity_?"

"No!" Hawkeye closed her eyes briefly, took a calming breath. Then she put her hands on Roy's shoulders and forced him, albeit gently, to lie back down. "You need to rest, sir. You can't tax your body this much, not yet."

"_What was it_?" her general half-pleaded in a whisper. "Why did you decide to…"

"Because…you are my commanding officer, and I…"

"You did it out of duty then?"

"Sir…please, just rest for now!"

Roy's one eye glinted feverishly up at her. He reached up and gripped her arm with both hands, tightly. Desperately. "Not shame, not pity, not sense of duty—_why_? _Why_ did you bring me here? And _why_ did you risk your life to save me, back at the mansion? Why have you _always_ been so willing to risk your life for me!?"

Hawkeye tried to pull free without answering. Her logical mind told her there _had_ to be some way—some intelligent, reasonable way—to calm him without…without _admitting_…

Her general's grip did not weaken. "Answer me, Lieutenant!"

Riza continued to hesitate. Her gaze dragged, as if against her will, to Roy's damaged features.

(Damaged and yet still so strong, still so defiant, still so _handsome_, damn it all!)

He saw her looking, of course.

"It's an _eye_, Riza." This time she didn't correct him, and still he wouldn't loosen his grasp of her arm. "It's not going to kill me. You kept Archer from killing me…you've always been there to guard my back. And…"

(A ragged pause: he was obviously struggling now.)

"And you never tell me why you do it, and you never take any credit for it, and you blame yourself for every little scratch I get…! Damn it, Riza! If I'm going to be the reason you hate yourself for being _human_, you could at least tell me why!"

Logical Riza Hawkeye could think of no logical answer to give. Kissing him—pushing her lips against his warm, wet mouth and feeling a throbbing, burning _something_ inside her begin to hum—was _anything_ but logical, anything but smart.

It was nothing she regretted, and when she pulled away she saw that her general was lying still against the pillow, good eye closed, breathing hard.

(_It's just an eye_, she told herself as she watched him lie perfectly motionless. _Just an eye_; she knew he was trying to hold onto the moment. _Just an eye_…and she started to believe it, if only a little.)

"You are the one person I would give my life for without any doubt," Hawkeye managed. Every single bit of her sensible side was calling her a fool right now, but there was still so much she couldn't help but say…

"From the moment I agreed to support you, I knew that if giving up my life could save yours, I would give it without a second thought. I swore to that. And yet…" Again, her fingers clenched, and again, speaking became a difficult thing. "And yet, when your life was in danger, I failed to act on what I said. All my promises became nothing more then lies spoken at a safer time."

Hawkeye straightened up. Her mind told her to salute out of habit, but she managed to keep her arms by her sides.

"It isn't pity, it isn't shame, and it has never been sense of duty," she said softly. "It's _guilt_. Because I swore to protect you and instead I let you down. I deserve the blame for this, General…and just because I won't let the crime hold me back doesn't mean I don't realize it occurred. Whatever I may feel…" Her voice steadied. "Whatever I may feel is just compensation for what I allowed to happen to you."

(Her general also heard what she _didn't_ say, of course: Riza protected him out of love. She wanted him so _fiercely_, but under her watch he'd been struck down.

How could she forgive that…? How could she let herself move on…?)

Roy opened his eye. He brought his hand up, and with a slightly trembling finger he traced the area where Riza had pressed her lips to his.

"Lieutenant," he said, hoarsely. "Lieutenant Hawkeye. Nothing you did during that fight was wrong or sinful. Nothing you have _ever_ done—you have always been so _perfect_…"

Riza attempted to say something, but he cut her off. He sat up again, and the words fell out of his mouth in a rush. "Besides Hughes, no one ever has ever trusted me the way you do. And now that…now that he's gone, I…_dammit_, Riza! You've always said I should stop blaming myself for what happened with Maes—so for _fuck's_ sake, stop blaming yourself for what happened to me!"

"Sir—"

"Because it _wasn't_ your fault. Because you didn't do anything _wrong_…" His voice flattened to a low hiss of frustration and pleading. "Because I'm tired of people hurting themselves over me. Maes supported me, and he's _dead_. You support me, and you can't forgive yourself for mistakes you never _made_!

"And I _know_ I'm being hypocritical," Roy added in a snarl. "I _know_ that. I guilt myself for a thousand things, and I probably always will. But you're different, you're not me!"

"General-!"

"You're _better_!"

Riza felt dizzy. She took an uncertain step towards the bed and couldn't help but slump against the side of it. Her general grabbed her arm again. His grip was far weaker this time, but she made no attempt to break free.

"You're a better person then I am, and you shouldn't make yourself suffer the same way I do! It's an _eye_. It's _nothing_. I'd gouge the other one out if it would take the goddamn guilt off your shoulders!"

"Just an eye…" Riza murmured, as if remembering something from very long ago.

(But it had only been a few minutes. How could things change so suddenly, so fast?)

"Just an eye," Roy repeated. "Just an eye." His grasp shifted again. This time, he let his fingers drift against the side of her face. This time, he was the one who started the kiss.

* * *

_Stubborn man,_ Hawkeye sighed three days later, her hands folding laundry but her mind far from the task. _Stubborn and hypocritical man._

Because Roy Mustang _did_ guilt himself, _constantly_; it had always been the one thing about him she would change. And now, the one time she did it to herself—and with a very good reason, too! —he scowled and grumbled when he saw the distant anger in her eyes.

(Most frustrating of all was how well he could _read_ her eyes. Her emotions might have been locked-up from the world, but Roy obviously had found the key.)

_Stubborn, hypocritical…_

But her general knew what it was like, to suffer over past mistakes. He knew, and he didn't want her to find out for herself, first-hand. Riza couldn't decide: was it hypocritical, or was it just Roy being Roy?

(Roy being that silly man who worried over her when he was the one missing an eye. Roy being that sly romantic who she knew would grin sheepishly and reach out for a kiss the moment she reentered the room, even though she had _things_ to do.

Roy being that quietly amazing person who would get the kiss, and then probably get a few more.)

But he had _forgiven_ her. That was what she couldn't come to grips with. He'd forgiven a screw-up as large as hers had been, and he'd done it without any hesitation. How was it possible for him to say 'just an eye' and move past it with such ease?

Riza didn't understand it…she wasn't sure she ever would. Her general was just so…

From the other room, there came a loud bark, followed by a masculine voice letting out a particularly frustrated curse. Hawkeye sighed.

For the past few days, Roy had been getting antsy with lying in bed all day, and he'd been trying to get up and walk around. But he was still too weak for that, whether he'd admit it or not, and so Riza had enlisted the help of Black Hayate to warn her whenever the foolishly obstinate alchemist attempted to sneak away. She had a nasty little suspicion that he was going to start bribing the dog soon…

(Not to mention, all he had to do was grin at her, and her irritation at his antics would ebb. Roy Mustang was annoyingly good at making Hawkeye flush and forget herself.)

As she turned to go rescue Hayate from whatever her general was scheming, Riza made a mental note to give Roy his medication soon. The doctor had left not so long ago, but Roy hadn't let him touch the one wound still worth worrying about, so Riza would have to clean it herself.

She was the only one he would let clean _that_ wound. The scarring underneath his eye patch still needed to be tended to carefully, with a slimy mess of creams and concoctions, because there was still a chance of infection setting in…but Roy hadn't allowed the doctor to take the covering off since he'd regained consciousness and bared his soul to Hawkeye.

Riza didn't understand why he trusted her, but he did, and so once a day she removed his eye patch with the humbling knowledge that she was the only one who could. Her general would lie back against the pillows, his good eye shut, and as she worked traces of nameless expressions would flit across his face.

And when she was done, and the eye patch was replaced, he would reach up and grab her wrist, keeping her hand pressed against the side of his face, and the faint smile he'd give into was almost enough to put Riza's guilt at bay. Almost.

But almost was better then nothing, and she was trying so hard to move on. Her general still had his own demons…with her aid, perhaps he could let them fall. Riza Hawkeye had never been one for praying, but there were times…late at night, when Roy was asleep…as she sat at his bedside and studied the contours of his features…there were times when she found herself praying she could help him heal from Ishbal, and from Hughes's death, in all the ways he never had.

Maybe together, they'd open their eyes. Maybe they could go further as a couple then they ever could alone.

Maybe that was all it took. Maybe…just…the two of them…together…


	24. 54: o child sama

* * *

AN-- Blaaarghh. I had this fully finished _months_ ago...and then, _the day after I finished it, _the Microsoft Word file caught computer rabis and became corrupted. Not only could I not open it, I had to erase it off my hard drive because it was seriously fucking up the rest of Word. And I still don't know what was wrong with it!

But, you know, it wasn't such a big deal...so 120 pages of stuff went goodbye...all of it was backed up--oh, except for the one-shot I'd just finished the night before (considering I'd finished it at 3 in the morning, I was in no mood to back it up right then and there.) SO--this one-shot you see before you? Gone for good. This is version number 2, written from scratch and what scraps of memories I had from version 1. It's nowhere _near _as good as its much-lamented predecessor, to the point where it hurts to look at it. But I'm posting it because I haven't updated this thing since March, and I'm _sick _of looking at it, and afghgwegvndcjxkwqd!!

Always back up your stuff, people. Nothing will ever go wrong with your files until the one time you don't back stuff up right away. Then things will go wrong!

* * *

_**Nature of Sacrifice**  
(54. O child-sama)_

"Dammit!"

First Lieutenant Hawkeye sighed. Colonel Mustang stood beside her, his hands clenched on his hips, looking frazzled and annoyed. Not that Hawkeye could blame him, exactly…

"Dammit! Why does everything have to be so _complicated_?" The colonel glared daggers at his present surroundings. "Do me a favor, Lieutenant," he growled, "and tell me _how_, exactly, all this happened!"

The lieutenant shifted her trench coat from one arm to the next, trying to stay underneath what little shade the overhanging roof above her gave. The main (and only) building of the train station currently receiving the colonel's wrath didn't provide for much cover, and the mid-afternoon heat was leaving Riza feeling a tad irritable herself.

"_Well_?"

Trying to keep her own temper in check (because arguing with the colonel when he was in one of his foul moods would get her nowhere at all), she answered calmly, "It's really quite simple, sir. A colonel is ordered to go on a mission out in the countryside by his superiors, and to get the assignment completed faster, he takes along his first lieutenant. The mission is easier than anticipated, but rather then return directly to Central City, the colonel decides to waste a few hours in bars and…" –Riza pursed her lips, just slightly—"other, less _reputable_ establishments.

"This results in the colonel and his lieutenant being forced to take the last available train of the day back to Central—and as luck would have it, that train ultimately had engine problems and broke down, leaving its passengers stranded at a train station quite far from the city. Interestingly enough, all of the _earlier_ trains apparently made it to Central just fine."

"Are you saying it's _my_ fault we're stuck in this…this _wasteland_?" Colonel Mustang snapped; Hawkeye sighed again. The colonel was terribly smart, but he didn't always think before speaking when pissed, and judging by the looks the other passengers scattered about the station were giving him, they didn't appreciate his description of their hometown.

Personally, Riza was of the opinion that their current location wasn't really a bad place to be stuck in at all. The tiny, ancient-looking train station was bordered on the right by the tracks, and on the left by a dirt road that didn't look as though it saw too much (or any) traffic.

Past the tracks, the dark greens and fresh smells of freshly-planted farmland stretched out to the horizon; warm, rich soil rested gently under a sky so intense and blue it almost hurt the eyes. The day had started out hazy and cool, but by now the sun had burned through most of the mist, leaving a few shredded clouds to trail lazily through the sky.

Past the dirt road, there were only mountains, standing stiff and stern, and the strangely comforting sense that humans in general were rather small.

"Dammit!" Mustang's aggravated voice cut through Riza's thoughts, and she shook her head. Three dammits in as many minutes…Hawkeye had a feeling her colonel was going to start setting things on fire soon.

"Sir," she began, "It looks as though we're going to have to wait here until another train can be sent from Central—"

"I'm _aware_ of that, Hawkeye."

"Then you are also aware that getting angry will solve _nothing_…"

The colonel rolled his eyes, and gave an irritable shrug. "I _know_ that," he muttered; after a minute he informed her curtly that he was going to go look around, and trudged off. His lieutenant knew that once he calmed down, he'd readjust his cocky mask and find a pretty passenger to flirt with, but for now he was too riled up.

(Riza ignored the urge to follow him; it wasn't as if he needed an extra shadow in such a small station. It was merely a habit left over from Ishbal—a reflex, really. Nothing more.)

Lieutenant Hawkeye settled down by the building, savoring the last dregs of shade. The other stranded passengers had for the most part already claimed their corners; they sat, either in small groups or alone, surrounded by boxes and bags. For some reason, no one was really talking, and anyone who did speak did so in low murmurs. A crate of chickens that had been unloaded from the broken train's luggage car clucked quietly to themselves in the background.

It was nice, here…it was nice to be surrounded by sleepy countryside rather then broken cities…fields rather then sand. It was nice to be able to look out at the sprawling landscape without wondering what insurgents that land hid. It was _nice_…

The problem was, Riza knew the scenery didn't have the same effect on her commanding officer. Upon first getting off the train he'd carefully scanned the surroundings once, the way Ishbal had taught him, and then turned away. The colonel didn't want the chance to sit back and catch his breath—or at least, he didn't think he had the _time_ for that chance. Wasting time (and not in the cautiously carefree way his office persona did), really _wasting time_ when he still had so much to accomplish, was not something he was prepared to do.

(He was like that with everything, really; it was why he would throw himself so deeply into learning new alchemic arrays and theories. It wasn't because he wasn't strong enough already, or even because he'd ever have a use for those obscure transmutation circles he spent so much time memorizing, but because he needed to _know_. He needed to have all the answers, for everything, until he was controlling everything and every_one_ like puppets on a string. If he was going to become president, Riza understood, he could afford to do nothing less…)

Several hot, empty minutes went by. Colonel Mustang came back to stand by Lieutenant Hawkeye, still reeking of frustrated boredom. "This is _ridiculous_," he groaned. "There is literally _nothing_ out here!"

"Small towns tend to be quieter then what we're used to in Central," Hawkeye reminded him.

"Town? What town?!" He threw his hands up in disgust. "I don't see enough _people_ for there to be a town here! Hell…there are more _chickens_ in this 'town' then people!"

The colonel slumped down besides her. _This is a waste of time,_ his eyes screamed. _There is still so much I have to do._

_(_Riza wondered if the pre-Ishbal Roy Mustang had known how to relax.)

They sat quietly for a bit. The colonel sighed and ran a hand through his hair, distracted thoughts flickering across his face. Hawkeye didn't attempt to say anything to him, although a part of her wondered what exactly he was thinking—she grasped Roy Mustang's mindset better then anyone realized, and she knew how pointless trying to force him into a conversation would be. The colonel never _was_ one for idle gossip.

True, his office persona would chatter mindlessly (or so it looked) to the proper people, at the proper times…ladies-man Mustang could spend an entire weekend with a date and not say a single important thing.

But that was just another one of his tricks, another talent he'd developed in order to succeed. Try and force the man to have a conversation, and he'd plaster on that mask, that bare grin, and talk in circles; secretly he'd be pulling himself further and further back, until his real self and his fake self were impossible to tell apart.

Riza would never willingly force her colonel's defenses up so strongly, so despite how much time went by in slightly-awkward silence, she didn't say anything to him. When he was ready, he'd say something.

And sure enough…

"The Elric brothers are from around here," he mentioned, seemingly out of an idle thought. "Their hometown looks a lot like this. Just as lacking in people, just as overpopulated with…" –a particularly loud _cluck_ reverberated through the station— "_chickens_." He rolled his eyes and fell silent again, letting several more minutes pass by.

(Understanding the colonel as well as she did kept Hawkeye waiting to see why he'd brought the brothers up so suddenly…but what he said next startled her nonetheless.)

"You ever want kids?" Colonel Mustang finally asked. Riza had been expecting a personal question (otherwise it wouldn't have taken him so long to ask it), but she was still _very_ surprised…not to mention very tempted to tell him it was none of his business!

"I can just see it," the colonel teased. "Little five-year-old Hawkeye playing house with her dolls."

Hawkeye frowned a bit. "I was more partial to my slingshot, actually."

Colonel Mustang grinned and shook his head. "Why am I not surprised? Still…" He looked at her. "It was a serious question. You ever want to have kids?"

(And things Riza had ignored for years suddenly rushed back…suddenly she remembered that _empty_ feeling—that strange, distant ache in the pit of her stomach that rose whenever she saw another woman with an infant. Suddenly she realized how _strange_ it was, to be so concerned over what the Elric brothers were going through, when in reality those boys played such a small role in her life…)

"Lieutenant?"

"…I did," she answered, carefully. "I used to want children of my own..."

"And now you don't?"

"Now I realize that such a dream is…impractical, considering my occupation."

"There are other women in the military with kids."

"Those women have different commanding officers."

Riza wished she could take back her response the minute it left her mouth; her colonel nodded slightly, and the grin on his face began to look a little strained. "Figured as much," he said, voice ringing with what someone else might mistake for his usual nonchalance—but Hawkeye could sense something dark and murky lingering behind his words.

(Not for the first time, and not for the last, she was amazed by how deep, how _thick_, her colonel's guilt flowed.)

"Figured that was how it worked. You gave up your dreams to help me with mine…"

"You achieving your goal is just as important to me as it is to you," Riza reminded him. "It was a willing sacrifice, sir."

"I know. I'm not saying it wasn't. All I'm saying is…fuck. I don't know what I'm saying. Hawkeye…"

A strangled pause.

"You gave up such important things, and all so you could support someone who just takes and takes…you've always been the one to make the sacrifices," Mustang whispered violently. "Not me. It's never been me who's had to make those types of choices."

"You've given up more than you realize, Colonel."

"Bullshit," he cried. "Dammit, Hawkeye, you could've been a brigadier general by now! I know you've turned down promotions so you could stay under me—not that you ever felt the need to mention it yourself. You could have had _children_ by now, you could have started a family…you just said yourself that you wanted to have one!" He gritted his teeth. "What the hell have I given up that even comes _close_ to any of that?"

"Sir," Lieutenant Hawkeye said, sharply, "you've dedicated your entire life to saving people who, chances are, will never even realize they've been saved! Isn't that a sacrifice? You have such a burden to carry already…don't add the decisions _I've_ made to it as well!"

"Hawkeye—"

"I had a choice…and I choice to put my personal wishes aside to help you. I don't regret that. I'm not able to have children…not right now, at least. But I _am_ able to see your goals fulfilled, and that makes my decision more than worthwhile."

"…Hard to argue with someone that confident."

Riza heard the doubt in Colonel Mustang's voice and frowned again. She leaned forward (she ignored the urge to grab his hand), until he had no choice but to look at her. "It was worth it, choosing you over everything else," she promised him. "As long as I can help you…as long as I can be by your side, it will _always_ be worth it."

Her colonel's eyes softened, and now his smile was pleasantly genuine…and now Hawkeye felt an entirely different sort of ache wriggle in the pit of her stomach…

"Colonel Mustang," she said abruptly, "I should also point out that it _isn't_ your fault I've never had any children."

(Her tone of voice suggested, with _all_ due respect of course, that he kindly stop being such an idiot. Mustang meekly withered a bit—he was rather familiar with _that_ tone of voice.)

"Yeah it is!" he attempted to protest. "If you didn't spent so much of your time risking your life over me, you could've—"

"Generally it takes the work of _two_ individuals to have a child," Hawkeye informed him. "Surely you aren't going to blame yourself for my lack of a husband on top of everything else."

"Er, well…if you weren't stuck in the military babysitting me, you would've had a better opportunity to fall in love with someone?" he tried, with a sheepish chuckle.

Hawkeye merely raised an eyebrow at him, and then stood up to stretch. Something caught her eye as she did so, and she glanced out at the train tracks to see a steadily-increasing grey cloud drifting towards the station. Nodding with satisfaction, she turned and looked back down at her commanding officer.

"I'm afraid you're wrong, Colonel," she said primly. "Falling in love is one thing the military hasn't kept me from doing." Ignoring his startled spluttering, she continued, "The train from Central is almost here, sir. We can finally return home."

Then she smiled at him (a rare event) and went to gather up her things.


	25. 28: pain and wounds

AN--A sort of 'missing scene' from manga chapter 44. That scene...the way Roy refuses to give up on Havoc, the way he insists on leaving the hospital early, the way Hawkeye comes to find him and the _look_ he gives her...

Always been one of my favorite Royai scenes evar.

Had fun writing optimist!Roy towards the end here, but I think he ended up becoming ooc in the process. I don't know. Lately all my writing's been corney and bad. Is 'my writing sucks' block the same disease as writer's block, or are they merely related?

Feel free to criticize away in your reviews...my next update will be in approximately one point five billion years.

* * *

_**Support**  
(28. pain and wounds)_

He is frustrated and weary. He's fucked up yet again (because while not dead, Havoc's injury means he's been taken away as permanently as Hughes), and he's just so angry. So inadequate.

Roy Mustang doesn't particularly care, therefore, when Lieutenant Hawkeye tells him he's still too weak to be leaving the hospital. He doesn't particularly care for her arguments against his discharging himself so early. _Let_ his side wound reopen. _Let_ it become infected again. What _difference_ will it make? He can't stop now—can't merely sit back and _wait_ for perfect health. The homunculi are pushing, and Roy is sure as fucking hell going to push back.

(He gives the lieutenant a look that is half fury, half desperation, and her eyes soften. Roy doesn't know—doesn't want to know—if she's feeling sympathy or pity, because he wants neither, but at least Hawkeye understands. She agrees to go and get his uniform, despite her misgivings, and Roy knows that if she is the next one he loses, he'll probably lose himself as well.)

--

The lieutenant has to help him walk back to his hospital room. Storming out of Havoc's room, as self-righteously _needed_ as it felt at the time, was agony on his injury, and now the colonel is finding it difficult to get his legs to hold him upright. He slings an arm across her shoulders, leaning against her with a grunt, and she ends up bearing more of his weight then he'd like to admit. In silence, they make their slow way back to the room.

Roy sits with a heavy sigh on the edge of his bed. The too-grey room smells of disinfectant and decay: typical hospital smells, and Roy's been in enough hospitals enough times that by now he should be used to it. He's not.

(On instinct, he always takes note of everything and everyone, and so there's always a part of his mind putting its disgusted focus on every foul odor it comes across. This trip's new smell: the smell of rotting, oozing flesh. A smell that doesn't quite have a name, and is all the more horrible for it—because if Roy could only _call_ it something, it wouldn't feel so strange and new and overpowering, and then maybe he could forget about the hole in his side….

This trip's other major stench is burned skin, but that smell Roy is used to. That smell he hardly notices.)

Lieutenant Hawkeye drops his uniform next to him, and moves over to help him undress. Roy bristles with the idea that he of all people needs _help_ getting _dressed_, and bristles again when he realizes that he really _does_ need the aid.

(_Nothing but a fucking invalid,_ he thinks bitterly…_it hurts to get my arms over my head_.)

Since he's been here, various nurses—most of them pretty enough, in a non-specific sort of way, to get Roy's drugged-up attention—have been helping him change, and the colonel's never really minded. At first, he hurt too much to protest; after, he just didn't care. But with his first lieutenant, it's different somehow.

It's not that he's _embarrassed_…any soldier who's killed on the front lines gets used to his privacy being stolen away. It isn't that he minds Hawkeye seeing him naked. (Noo…he certainly doesn't mind that at all.)

And it isn't as though this is the first time he's been injured, been weak, around her. She's seen him at his lowest, his most helpless; he doesn't think Riza realizes it herself, but after Ishbal her presence kept him staggering off the brink of the world. Roy's always felt comfortable around her…

Never mind all that, though. Roy doesn't want her help right now—doesn't want to need it. He has to be _strong_, he has to be the _hero_…how is he supposed to reach the top like _this_?

"Frail piece of shit," he mutters—to himself, really, but his lieutenant's hands pause and stiffen against him, and he discovers he's actually spoken out loud.

"Sir," she says, in that quiet, careful way of hers. "Colonel Mustang."

He shudders.

"It's true. Hughes _and_ Havoc…next it'll probably be you." Roy puts a clenching hand to the bandaged mass of dead skin on his side; Hawkeye's taken his hospital shirt off but hasn't yet handed him his white button-down, so his fingers press directly against the thin wrappings—through them, he can make out the roughness of myriad scars. The ragged lesions _feel_ ugly, somehow.

"All my people are dying…having their lives dismantled. Did you ever think you'd be fighting _homunculi_ before you started protecting me?"

(He wants to add: did she think she would ever lose her control, ever cry…ever _surrender_ the way she did with Lust, the way she did because of him? Hughes is dead, Havoc is injured, Hawkeye's been put through the emotional _wringer_…)

"And meanwhile," he snaps, "Meanwhile I can't even stand up!"

"You're _injured_. It isn't your fault you were so seriously hurt in battle."

"I don't have _time_ to be injured! I have to _fix_ things—"

Impatiently, foolishly, Roy tries to get to his feet. He moves too fast for his recuperating body, and as a result knives hack at his wound and his legs turn useless. The room tilts—how insane—it feels as though he's ripped through the ruined flesh, pulled the stitches, carved himself open…oh, _fuck_, it hurts! He sits back down, hard, on the edge of the bed, and his head spins and spins…

"Ohhh…" He feels rather then hears himself release a thick groan. "Ohh…_shit_."

"Colonel Mustang-!"

The lieutenant moves quickly to steady him, grabbing his shoulders. Roy spits out a curse that morphs into a cough halfway through, and leans against her, and he can't help it. He's naked from the waist up, leaning wearily against Hawkeye, and he feels stupid and weak—and he can't help any of it.

"Dammit," he murmurs. "Damn it, I hate this."

Hawkeye doesn't say anything. Roy, who has spent his adult life listening to flowery speeches and subtle propaganda, appreciates his lieutenant's quiet nature; he knows she'll never waste words lying to him, and it's a refreshing thought. Riza isn't about to purr useless sentiment in order to break his convictions of weakness…she understands as well as he does that doing so wouldn't change a thing.

It's interesting, though…stiff Hawkeye, stern Hawkeye, follows-the-rules-even-as-she-secretly-breaks-them-by-plotting-treason-with-her-colonel Hawkeye doesn't pull away from him as he reclines against her. His head is against her chest—

(Against her _chest_! Dear fucking lord! Even in Roy's current maudlin state, even if he were _dead_, he'd still be _extremely_ aware of the fact that his head is currently resting against _First Lieutenant Hawkeye's wonderfully ample breasts_.

Ohh. Dear lord.)

—and she doesn't resist at all, doesn't seem awkward or uncomfortable. Hawkeye has always been a stickler for propriety, at least in public: an innocent laugh between friends automatically becomes more to those strangers who overhear it, and he knows his lieutenant will never willingly let his reputation wither because of her. Yet, here he is, using her for support in the most literal sense of the word…

And she assists him. Just like always. She's the one constant, the one consistency Roy Mustang has in a life where everything he does is potentially fatal, where every move he makes has the ability to backfire, where everyone he needs is wrenched away._She's_ the one who came to find him before, when he stormed from Havoc's room in a blind, helpless rage. She's the one who understood everything he was afraid of back there—everything he's still afraid of—everything he didn't want to face—

It almost seems foolish, now that he thinks about it, to be so disgusted at being so weak…because with Riza, he _isn't_ weak. God, without her he'd be worthless…less then worthless! Without her steady support he'd be nothing at all!

But as long as she's by his side, there's always a chance. Rarely does she explain her motives for following him; he half-suspects she'd be embarrassed to do so. Riza Hawkeye and her guarding of words…she's never been one for flowery speeches. And anyway, what does she _need_ words for? There are promises she's made Roy that she's never had to speak out loud.

Riza looks at him with those firm amber eyes and Roy _knows_ he will succeed. With the confident drive, the steadfast trust, the forgiveness she does not begrudge him and does not hold over his head…with all these gifts offered by Riza Hawkeye, there isn't any other option but to reach his every goal.

Let his body be torn and shredded. Let every bad memory rise up as a miasma of bad dreams and bile. They will not stop him.

"Colonel?"

Roy is still leaning against Riza. Forgetting himself, he turns his head to the side, shifting to be nearer to her, and closes his eyes: it is a picture of supreme comfort, and it is no longer a pose that can be explained away by his injuries or his anger. It's obvious what this is.

Hawkeye hesitates for only a second before wrapping her arms around him. One slender hand comes up to the back of his skull, and fingers that are calloused from caressing rifles become tender as they stroke through his hair.

Roy thinks about Hughes, and about Havoc. He thinks about everything he still has to do. He thinks about how a minute ago he was furious with his injuries for holding him back, and how now he knows he hasn't been held up at all. Riza is here, and she's holding him. Everything will be all right.

"If I have to be this weak," he says, almost as an afterthought, "then I'm glad I'll be always be supported by you."

Riza says nothing, and that says it all.


	26. 32: shirt

AN-- Something I enjoyed writing, which is a change of pace. I'm praying this means my writer's block of the past, like, _year_ is over. Beware some strange grammar, my style took a turn for the weird while writing this.

If you read it, I'd be honored if you'd review it too.

* * *

_**Old Habits  
**(32. shirt)_

Roy looked around and was amazed.

Standing there, on a crowded street in downtown Central, people swarming past him, resenting the break in the flow his statuary body caused—standing there, amazed. All the people. All the stores. All the things.

Had he done this? Had he stepped off the rickety old train that belched smoke and desert fire, had he walked from the station (cautiously at first, stopping short at every car's backfire, but speeding up as he remembered there would be no bullets) and lost himself in the crowds? He had lost himself in Central City's winding, senseless streets and now he was _here_ (wherever _here_ was) and he wasn't at war (though his uniform marked him even now).

Roy had only been in Ishbal a year, but a century of misery had passed there and now he didn't remember anything but blood and heat.

The streets were lined with stores, selling everything. Roy's first instinct was to go and buy the lot, for rationing purposes—to save for when the next insurgent attack came and supplies couldn't get through. But this wasn't a war zone; what he didn't buy today would still be available tomorrow. Rationing was a habit he could ignore.

Then he considered buying everything anyway, this time because everything was something he hadn't had in a long time. Fresh food! Bars of soap by the handful! Clothing that wasn't grey-blue-grey after months of sharp winds and sand! Books and toys and chairs: all these things that had no purpose other then to comfort or entertain! Everything he'd been trained to live without!

What a wonderful city Central was. Roy had always loved it, always marveled at the amount of alchemy texts in its library and the amount of alchemists on its streets, but now he wanted to bend down and kiss the earth. The people moving past him might not have thought it strange, either; surely they were used to brave hero soldiers returning from war. Even if they didn't know that this particular soldier was the Flame Alchemist, the demon, the infamous state killer. Even if they gave him more respect than he wanted or deserved.

(Ashes to ashes—and that was his job. Turning things to ash. People to ash. Ashes to ashes, and for this they gave him metals.)

Standing there, in the midst of the human swarm, Roy had a sudden thought. Next to him was a clothing store: it looked expensive, name-brand. Roy considered the bills and coins in his wallet, and then went inside.

He found what he was looking for almost immediately. A silk shirt, with small pearl buttons running down the center, the color a beautiful smoky grey. He held it in his hands and wondered at how smooth it was, compared to the roughness of his uniform. It was a shirt he was sure any woman would look pretty in.

It was a shirt he knew Riza would have no use for. Silk was expensive, impractical, and when would she ever wear it? Only high-ranked soldiers went to military balls, and those required the uniform anyway. He knew Riza wasn't one for parties and finery. What use would she have for this shirt?

He bought it. A smiling sales-clerk helped him guess at Riza's size; she looked at him with helpful eyes, and Roy knew she'd never seen a day of war or bloodshed in her life.

(_Is that what Riza's eyes would look like if she'd never gone to fight_? he wondered. He tried to picture her with unknowing eyes and failed.)

The shirt was ridiculously expensive, blatantly overpriced, and he'd regret the purchase later when he ran out of food—but leaving the store, Roy felt dizzily pleased. He grasped the bag tightly in his hands, picturing the shirt inside…the useless, fragile fabric that Riza would probably _never_ wear…

But he would give it to her, and maybe she would. Maybe she would take off her uniform and put the shirt on and it would look stunning on her, Roy knew it would. Maybe she would take off her uniform and he would take off his, and they would leave Central and go as far away as it was possible to go. They'd find some hamlet somewhere, and they'd stay there—together, no one else. They could have a life together, and it'd be wonderful, and sometimes Riza would wear the shirt and Roy would reach out to caress her and he wouldn't be afraid…!

Maybe they could forget his recent promise. Maybe Roy didn't have to dig them both in, place the chains around their necks. Why did _he_ have to fix the military? Let it be someone else.

They could become _normal_ _people_, and live normal lives. No more military. No more shouting orders and cursing in the thick stench of godforsaken deserts. Just _normal_ lives.

He would give Riza the shirt, and maybe she would wear it, and maybe they could rebuild themselves, and surely everything else would rebuild as well…

It was beginning to rain, as he stepped out of the store. Rain: real, fat raindrops, plopping down against the ground and everyone around him just taking them for _granted_. How amazing. Roy held the bag under his jacket to keep it from getting wet, and felt so wonderfully civilian it took his breath away.

Then there was a crack of thunder, a noise Roy wasn't used to, and on startled instinct he whirled around and snapped his fingers.

He wasn't wearing his gloves, and the people behind him didn't—never would—realize how fortunate they were for that. Roy, however, knew exactly how close that had been. He started to shake.

_No. Not here._

The alchemist had to lean against a wall for support. He couldn't breathe, couldn't swallow: there was a block of ice wedged in his throat, trickling down his spine. A few passers-by glanced at him, but no one stopped to ask if he was all right. He was military, after all, and they respected the military but didn't trust it. Roy felt hollow and invisible, standing there, wanting to scream—all anyone saw was the goddamn uniform and _dammit_! He wanted to be more than that!

How stupid. How absolutely goddamn _stupid_ that Roy couldn't keep up the façade for more then one hectic afternoon. Jumping at cars back-firing and thunder storms…these sneering reminders still clinging to his shoulders…

No matter where he went, Roy realized now, the military—its ghosts, its rage—would follow him. He wasn't a civilian. He wasn't anything. Why should he think he had the power to keep the collar off his neck? It was already there, rubbing blisters against his skin.

He couldn't escape all the old habits. Really, it was foolish for him to try.

The rain was coming down harder now. All of Central's civilians went scurrying about, ducking under umbrellas and storefronts, trying to stay dry. Not realizing they had the power to move without chains. Roy Mustang the soldier barely seemed to notice the rain, and made no effort to stay dry. He headed back to Central's military barracks, because he didn't know where else he was supposed to go. There was nothing else left, so he went there.

(But first, he threw the shirt away.)


	27. 56: skillful and clumsy

AN-- It liiives....

My focus is now mostly on my joint fic, _The Wanderers_. I'll still be updating this, but...slooowly.

This story takes place early in the anime; hence why Ed is still unsure of his commanding officer, and why they don't quite have the grudging respect for each other that develops later. Ed's still trying to figure Mustang out here...

Holy crap. First time in three plus some-odd years of writing FMA that I've actually bothered to write about Ed. Lolwut? (There're some EdWin hints in this, by the way.) At first this took place in Central, but I changed it; if you see any Central City references, please let me know, as...they shouldn't be here.

The ending of this...the ending is.....ugh. Any advice?

The part where Roy undresses? Totally not my attempt at sexy Flame Alchemist fan-service. Totally not.

(The last chapter didn't get much feedback and I'd love to know what you guys think. If you've got any free time, feel free to review that chapter as well. Thanks!)

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A Question of Concern**__  
(56. Skillful and clumsy)_

Ed was sure the asshole had done it on purpose.

After all, wasn't it always the Idiot Colonel who nagged about reports and check-ins and who knew what else? Colonel Bastard was always making snide little comments about how late Ed was with his reports—despite the fact that the colonel was the laziest procrastinator in the whole freaking military! Ed had an _excuse_! Searching for the Philosopher's Stone was more important then _paperwork_, and Mustang _knew_ that. What was _his_ excuse for being so behind on _his_ reports all the time? Was he too busy chasing after anything in a skirt to do something constructive?

The asshole had definitely done it on purpose!

It was maddening. Ed hadn't even wanted to come back to East City in the first place; the latest leads on the Stone were all pointing him in the opposite direction, towards a small desert town on the edge of the Amestrian/Xing border. It was Alphonse who had pointed out the three-month difference between the report's due date and the current date—Ed didn't want to admit it, but he knew just how far he could push things.

Early on in their journey, with everything he had to accomplish looming in front of him, he'd let nearly half a year drag by without turning in any papers. Finally, the colonel had tracked them down, called their hotel (calling collect just to be that much more of an _asshole_), and ordered Ed to hand over what was due. Edward had heard a certain edge in the man's voice, and, remembering how much of the colonel's reputation had been staked on the promised genius of the Elric brothers, had followed orders without too much of a fight. Since then, he'd tried to be a bit more on time.

And here were the thanks he got!

Rushing back to East City so that Mustang wouldn't get in trouble (because Ed couldn't care less about what the military complex thought of his own self), deliberately going the wrong way just to help out the colonel—and the colonel was too damn _busy_ to acknowledge his existence!

Oh, sure, he'd gotten one of his loyal stooges to actually handle the fall-out; Havoc had been the one to mention that Mustang was out training today, he wouldn't be back in the office until Monday, and he was much too busy to look at Ed's report now but if he left it on the desk, the colonel would certainly get back to him by Tuesday at the latest—probably.

(As if Edward Elric was going to spend the next month trying to get that Idiot Colonel to focus on his work for once. As far as Ed was concerned, that was Hawkeye's job.)

It was a nice trick: leaving Havoc to bear the brunt of Mustang's detractors and their irritation. The poor second lieutenant seemed entirely too used to it, giving Ed his boss's message with a resigned, mope-y air. Probably, most people took their frustration out on Havoc and then went about their business.

Not the Fullmetal Alchemist!

A few well-placed curse words—and the threat of some well-placed alchemic transmutations—and Ed was storming out of Eastern HQ, making his wrathful way towards the parade grounds. Assuming Havoc had told the truth, Mustang was training there today. Well, fine. He could take Ed's report there just as easily as at Headquarters. Ed would give him the report, and then start breaking the dipshit's fingers until he'd read every last footnote and semi-colon!

The parade grounds slowly came into view, their details obscured by the hazy mid-afternoon sun. Remembering the layout of the place from when he'd kicked Roy's ass during his assessments-

(Some small part of Ed murmured that, no, Roy hadn't lost, he merely hadn't won. Ed's victory during that battle, some small part sighed, was due not to any personal strengths, but to Mustang's demons, and their fetid breathing along the colonel's spine. Ed's talents hadn't made the difference at all.

What a lousy way to win.)

-Ed took a couple turns, was surrounded for a few minutes by a labyrinth of storage sheds and sound equipment, and came out suddenly onto a wide expanse. A large circle of flat, cracked concrete sat there, flanked on three sides by empty bleachers. At the side nearest Ed stood Hawkeye—no surprise there—holding both the colonel's coat and her own, standing ramrod straight and impassive.

And in the center of the concrete ring stood the Flame Alchemist. Smoke slithered between his fingers, and calculating violence peered out from his eyes.

"Hmph," Ed muttered. "Dramatic idiot."

He moved to take a step forward, started to raise his voice—but Roy was faster then he was.

The Flame Alchemist darted forward a step, threw his left arm out, and snapped twice: a literal wall of flames roared into being, crackling in a way that sounded like laughter. The concrete underneath the flames singed a deep black, but Roy didn't seem to notice. Without giving the fire a chance to fade, he brought up his right hand, as if to plunge and burn his fingers in the blazing depths.

But, no: directly before the writhing mass, he curled the fingers of his right hand, so that they pointed stiffly. For the first time, Ed realized that the colonel was only wearing his usual spark glove on his left hand; his right was bare, except for the curious, unsettling black lines crisscrossing the flesh. It looked as though Mustang had drawn a different array on his right hand…that array was beginning to send off a faint glimmer…

Roy's eyes were alight with the fire and the smoke and the _rush_ of everything, there was a joyous screaming in his expression now, and the array drawn on his right hand beamed even brighter. Ed was so used to the colonel looking smug and unruffled (the younger alchemist had a suspicion you could tell Mustang the damn world was ending, and he'd only smile slightly and shake his head) but here he looked enraptured, thrilled…utterly lost in the mad temptations of his alchemy. Utterly _lost_. And Ed, who knew those temptations well, felt an uncertain shiver.

That second array was blaring light by now. Roy kept his hand outstretched, his fingers pointed, and the fire—the fire seemed to _sense_ this—

It shifted itself, formed and reformed, reached out tendrils towards its creator. Obediently, it warped itself: a wild thing turned docile, a monster tamed. But it was still _fire_—it growled under its throat all the while, looking for a way to break free. It was grudgingly controlled. It yearned for a blinding, scalding, furious _more_…!

Ed could see beads of sweat forming on the colonel's face, and knew instantly they weren't from the heat. He'd never tried fire alchemy himself (he'd never admit it, but he didn't exactly understand _how _to try it…he'd found surprisingly little written information), but considering how unstable an element it was, he was sure it took extreme concentration and skill to work it. The fact that Roy was so adept at using it was a testament to his talents.

But that other array, on the colonel's right hand…it must have been new. The sweat beads, the way Mustang's brow was furrowed with an intense struggle…he was fighting to work this new array, to keep his fire in check. And the fire was fighting back.

The wall of flames had reformed itself by now into a tight, thick ball; that ball hovered waveringly over Roy's stiffened right hand. With every finger twitch, the fireball bobbed and twisted. A few times it formed other shapes entirely: a long sword of flames, for instance…dozens of sharp spikes. Always it ultimately returned to a round shape, but each time it was a less-perfect circle. Flames smoldered doggedly in the wrong direction, sticking out of the circle, burning hazardously close to the exposed flesh of Roy's arm.

The shiver down Ed's spine returned in spades. Mustang was going way too damn far—he was going to lose control of that giant, fiery mass. Ed wasn't too worried: a few well-placed walls of ground would block any explosions, he mused—but—

_Dammit! I forgot about the lieutenant!_

Edward's eyes jerked towards Lieutenant Hawkeye. She'd been so quiet he'd almost forgotten about her…she hadn't noticed him yet, either. But…damn! She wasn't an alchemist; if Mustang did lose control, how the hell was she supposed to protect herself…?

_Moron!_ Ed thought in disbelief. _He's totally forgotten she's here! She does so much for the asshole, and he goes and sticks her right in harm's way!_

Roy was still fighting to keep the fire in line, and Ed wasn't about to wait until the fire won the battle. He ran forwards, and grabbed Hawkeye by the shoulder; she looked behind her, startled, and her eyes widened.

"Edward…?"

"Sir, you've gotta go," he half-yelled at her. "The colonel doesn't know how to keep that thing under control!"

Now, Ed was expecting any one of several reactions from the first lieutenant: surprise, outrage…maybe even—though he had a hard time seeing such an expression on Riza Hawkeye's face—outright fear. What he was _not_ expecting was for her eyes to soften, her lips to curve upwards slightly, and her posture to lose a bit of its stiff edge. She pulled away from his grip, and shook her head.

"Don't worry, Edward. It's safe."

Incredulous, the boy gaped at her. "Are you—_no_, it's not safe! He's about to wipe out half of East City!"

"No. The colonel wouldn't train in the midst of such a crowded city if he had any fears of that happening. If he thought he couldn't control his alchemy, he wouldn't use it here and put his people in danger." Her tone was one of complete confidence.

"Bullshit," growled Ed, out of frustration more than anything. "He's putting _you_ in danger right now! _Obviously_ he doesn't care if his little trick hurts _you_—"

It was a mistake to say that, Ed realized a second later.

Lieutenant Hawkeye's eyes had turned viper-sharp. Her hands twitched at her sides. She didn't say anything, not at first…just stood there, and stared at him. Anger radiated from her…anger, and something sad…

Edward had been called dense several times in his life; mostly the caller was Winry, who remained convinced that he was so busy reading scientific studies he forgot to have normal human interactions. This time, however, he didn't need the help to understand that what he'd just said was incredibly stupid.

"I, uh," he stammered. "I didn't mean…"

"The colonel knows how to control his alchemy," the lieutenant said quietly. "He will do whatever is needed to keep people safe."

(She'd left out the 'his' part of 'his people', Ed's analytical mind noted. There was something very soft and unhappy about that.)

"Anyway, I trust him."

"I, uh…yeah. I know. Er, and I know he's trying not to hurt you."

Hawkeye smiled again. She didn't seem angry anymore, but her eyes still looked sad. "…I realize you and the colonel don't always see eye-to-eye, Edward. I don't expect you to understand, but I'm not concerned for my safety around him. He's always been able to earn my trust."

Ed nodded, letting the matter drop. He and the lieutenant watched in silence as Roy (who'd been completely oblivious to the whole exchange) slowly lowered his right hand. The fire spat and huffed, but much of its strength had since faded away. With a few last puffs of smoke, it flickered out.

Mustang flexed his fingers, and wiped the sweat off his brow. He seemed to be trembling slightly with exertion, but when he turned around there was a satisfied grin on his face.

"It still takes too long to form," he said, walking over to Lieutenant Hawkeye, "And it's hard to keep steady. Not practical for battle yet…but if I fiddle with the array…"

"You looked far more in control with this attempt," the lieutenant nodded.

Mustang chuckled. "Didn't set the floor on fire, anyway. Another few tries and I should…" His voice trailed off as he finally noticed Ed, who was standing slightly behind Hawkeye and glowering up at him. "Fullmetal," he said in surprise. "Where'd you come from?"

"From the edge of _Xing_," Ed growled. "To give you your goddamn _report_!"

"Oh right…" the colonel said, in a vague sort of way. "Your report."

"You forgot!?"

"What can I say. Not used to you handing your stuff in on time."

"Spare me," the Fullmetal Alchemist muttered. After the last few minutes, he wasn't in the mood for a verbal fistfight.

"I'm gonna go change uniforms," Mustang told his lieutenant. "This one's got more ash and sweat than fabric."

Hawkeye said she'd wait for him outside the parade grounds, and Roy stepped off the concrete and moved to a bench that stood in shadows by a wall. A neatly folded military uniform rested on it. Roy shrugged off his jacket, and was in the process of unbuttoning his shirt when his eyes fell upon Edward. The smaller alchemist was still standing there, still glaring openly.

"Uh. Listen, kid. No offense or anything, but I tend to prefer it if only _chicks_ watch me undress. I know I'm distractingly attractive and all, but—"

"You're a real asshole, you know that?"

"Language, language. You kiss Winry with that kind of mouth?"

"_I don't kiss_—!"

"Huh. You pull off the 'red-faced-and-stammering' look surprisingly well." Roy turned away again, his shirt in his hands. His lithe, muscular body showed traces of wild embers—small, dark burns were flaked here and there along his arms and chest, sprinkled around other wounds from other weapons. Not all of the burns were from today, either. Most of them looked old.

Ed's eyes fell on one particularly big, particularly ugly one that cut its jagged away along the colonel's chest. He frowned. A burn that large must have been almost unbearably painful…

So why the hell was he taking Hawkeye's presence so lightly?! He obviously knew how agonizing the results of his fire alchemy could be. Not that Ed had _ever_ understood why the lieutenant put up with the jerk, but she _did_—shouldn't he be a _bit_ more appreciative?

The colonel was buttoning up his new shirt now. "So, Fullmetal," he started to say, "This report of yours better be—"

"Save the lecture," Ed snapped.

Mustang raised an eyebrow. "Touchy, touchy. Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?"

"Funny. No, I just remembered how much of a…" He cut himself off before he could say something court-martial worthy. The colonel just frowned.

"Kid, I don't know what your problem is, but I don't have time for temper-tantrums. So you had to take a few days out of your search to give me your report: get over it. You weren't going to get Alphonse's body back this week, so…"

"That's not it!" Ed narrowed his eyes. "Do you ever worry about anyone besides yourself? _Ever_?"

"Exactly what is this about, Ed?"

"Figures you wouldn't know. This is about _Hawkeye_," Ed spat. The colonel looked startled, but Ed didn't give him a chance to interrupt. "That alchemy of yours…it wasn't your usual trick."

"No, it's something new I'm working on. What the hell does that have to do with—?"

"Exactly. Something _new_. And Hawkeye was practically standing right next to you! What if you'd lost control of the damn thing?"

"I wasn't…" There was a certain edge now, in Roy's voice. "I was training. What's your point?"

"My point," Edward said, "is that you could've _killed_ her if you screwed up. Did that even cross your mind? And don't give me that military garbage about it 'being her job' to be in danger. You don't even realize how loyal she is to you, and it sure doesn't look like you care. Must be nice, having pawns you can just sacrifice whenever you—"

Suddenly, Roy was _there_. He grabbed Ed by the collar, pushed him up against the wall, almost knocking over the bench in the process.

"Hey-! What the hell…?"

"_Do not_," Roy hissed, "_tell me I don't care about Hawkeye_."

"Well—"

"_I would not hurt her. _I would not _let_ myself hurt her. I'd fling the fire in the opposite direction if I had to, or I'd take the brunt of it myself. Don't you dare think I'd let her pay the price for my mistakes."

"Look," Ed began, bewildered at the sudden passion in his languid superior, "I'm just saying it's risky..."

"Drop it, kid. Do yourself a goddamn favor and _drop it_."

Ed pulled himself free from Mustang's grasp. A part of him—a rather _large_ part of him—itched to hit the jackass over the head with the largest brick he could transmute, but something stopped him at the last second. There was a certain _look_, in the colonel's eyes. Ed thought he recognized it.

It looked a bit like fear.

It _was_ fear. Fear, and denial, and a wounded desperation. There was something to Roy's voice that insisted he would never hurt the first lieutenant, but that something ended on a question. It was the same dread that Ed knew he felt on the darkest nights, when finding the Philosopher's Stone seemed all but impossible…when any promises of happy futures made to Al stunk of lies…

Something connected, inside Fullmetal's mind. The colonel seemed bathed in different lights.

The two alchemists stared at each other in silence, before Roy finally turned away. He looked more irritated than angry at this point; probably he was annoyed that he'd lost control the way he had. "Don't know why I'm bothering to explain it," he muttered. "Not like you'd ever understand."

Ed didn't say anything. _I get it,_ he wanted to say. _I get it perfectly now._ But he didn't. He just shrugged.

"Temper, temper," he smirked, "Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed?"

Roy rolled his eyes, but the two were back on familiar territory now. The outright animosity faded, in favor of the usual, mutual snarky banter.

"I'm sure putting up with you will give me nightmares for a week, kid."

"I hope so! It'd sure make me happy."

"I make you happy? Damn, that's pretty creepy. I've mentioned before that I only screw women, right?"

"That's not what I meant, you prick! That's not even what I _said_!"

"Shit, you're turning red again. Fullmetal, I would rather chop my dick off and take a vow of celibacy, than willingly sleep with you."

"You're about to make me _vomit_."

(There was something missing in all this mockery. Roy still looked agitated and unsettled. He kept shoving his hands deep into his pockets, as if trying to forget they were there.)

"Puke on your own time. Just give me your report so I can get back to pretending you don't exist."

"Here. I hope it's so boring it kills you."

"Considering you have the writing skills of a first grader…"

"At least I'm _literate_!"

"You're also a virgin."

"What does that have to do with anything!?"

"I dunno," Roy shrugged, "It just automatically makes you less important."

"Do you ever think about anything besides…_that_?"

"What, sex?" Another shrug. "I try not to."

"Ergh…!"

Roy turned to go, Ed's crumpled report in hand. "I've got to go, the lieutenant's waiting for me. I assume you and Alphonse will be rushing back to Xing?"

"Yeah. We've got a good lead." Edward's eyes shown with determination. "We're closer than ever…I can almost see the Stone in front of me."

The colonel nodded. He took another few steps away from Ed, but then stopped suddenly. He didn't turn back around; the stiffness was back in his posture.

"I'm closer than ever to getting that new array to do what I want it to," he said, to himself. "Then I'll be that much stronger. That much closer to the top. I won't have to risk losing…neither one of us will have to risk losing our lives for foolish reasons when I've made it all the way up…" Roy shook his head, let out one of his trademark sardonic chuckles, and kept walking.

Ed bristled, watching him leave. _Leave it to __**him**__ to get one last dig in._

(It made sense, though, what the colonel was saying. It was a bit disturbing, how well Ed was starting to understand his superior…especially when it was just so much _easier_ to consider him a useless prick and be done with it!)

Feeling a confusing swell of both irritation and admiration for the colonel—a combination he was going to have to get used to, it seemed—Fullmetal headed for the exit. It was only as he was cutting through the outer complex, that he realized something.

"_I'd fling the fire in the opposite direction if I had to."_

But the training grounds were surrounded by buildings. There was an apartment complex practically right next-door—and nowhere were the buildings nearer to the grounds then behind where Roy had been standing. The opposite direction from Lieutenant Hawkeye wasn't exactly a place to be throwing fire either!

The colonel wouldn't actually let the city burn to save his lieutenant. No one was that stupid, especially not someone as idealistic as Roy Mustang. Surely he wouldn't really…

Maybe he would.

(What wouldn't Ed do for Al? For Winry?)

Reality was masquerading as practice for Roy, and Ed realized once and for all how little he understood his boss.


	28. 39: sly person

AN- This will probably be one of the last updates for this collection; I might write two or three more oneshots, and then focus fully on _Wanderers_ and original work. I've been in this fandom since 2004, so I suppose it's time for a break.

The idea for this was inspired by **_Leni_**'s collection, _Warning Labels_ (highly recommend it, by the way), which had a bit about smoker!Roy in it. Granted, he's not actually a smoker in this, but hey! His thoughts on the matter are involved. Frankly, I feel like I've seen this idea somewhere else...if I've accidently gone and been woefully uncreative, it wasn't on purpose!

Barely edited equals typo alert.  
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_**Ulterior Motives**  
(39. Sly person)_

"What are you doing?" Hawkeye wants to know. She's standing in the doorway to Roy's office, arms full of paperwork, posture ramrod-straight. She's also raising an eyebrow, and Roy knows from lots and lots of personal experience that it's never a good sign when she does that.

He glances down at the pack of cigarettes in his hand, and wonders if it's too late to hide them.

"_Colonel_."

It is.

"Well, Lieutenant," he attempts, but before he can finish, a very irate Jean Havoc comes storming into the room.

"My cigarettes!" Havoc protests. "Hey, chief, get your own!"

"Don't flatter yourself." Mustang rolls his eyes. "I wasn't going to smoke them, I was going to throw them out while you weren't around to notice. Haven't you been wondering why your packs have been vanishing all week long?"

Havoc pauses, working it out. "I thought the janitor was swiping them…hey! Quit throwing out my smokes!" He grabs the pack from Mustang, indignant. "Going through my desk and everything…"

"Sir…" Hawkeye places most of the paperwork onto his desk. Roy grabs the first sheet, to see if that will damper the oncoming lecture, but it doesn't. "Sir, why were you throwing out Lieutenant Havoc's cigarettes?"

Roy shrugs. "I'm sick of smelling them."

"It's not like I smoke them in the office-!" Havoc starts to say, but cuts himself off when Hawkeye and Mustang give him dirty look in unison. "Ok, so sometimes I forget and smoke them in the office. Not all the time, though! And that doesn't mean you can just throw 'em out, either. These things are expensive."

"Then you should stop smoking them," Roy suggests. "They smell shitty and make you smell shitty as a result. I don't really enjoy smelling you period, but if I have to you could at least not smell like burning rubber."

"Hey, we've all got our bad habits." Havoc gives his boss a slow, knowing grin. "I don't think you're allowed to lecture me when you've got a half-empty bottle of bourbon sitting in your bottom desk drawer."

Roy does his best to ignore the look in Hawkeye's rich, red-brown eyes. "We're not talking about my problems here. You're the one who's gonna end up with lung cancer and yellow teeth."

"And you'll end up with a dead liver. We can be hospital roommates, it'll be fun." Havoc pauses. "I don't have yellow teeth!"

"Bad teeth and making everyone around you cough…" Roy demurs, "Girls might like you better if you didn't imitate a smokestack."

"I dunno. Seems to work well enough for you, Flame Alchemist. Or do girls only like it when the smoke smell in your clothes is from alchemy?"

"I don't smell like cigarette smoke," Roy says. Something of the Murderer of Ishbal glints at the back of his eyes. "The stench of ash is more muted. More choking. It's so much more _pungent_ than the smell of cigarettes…you can always tell which is which."

Hawkeye interrupts quickly, before the demon Roy sometimes loses himself to has a chance to come out. Part of her job, after all, is to keep his darker sides at bay. "Colonel Mustang," she says, "You could have simply reminded Lieutenant Havoc not to smoke in the office. Outside of work, it isn't really your business what he does."

"Yeah," Havoc grunts. Roy simply turns and smirks at his first lieutenant, and she hides a sigh.

(Foolish of her, really; she should know him better. Of course he wouldn't just tell Havoc to knock it off—that would've been far too _obvious_, far too _overtly worried_, for a man as deeply buried in facades as Roy Mustang. To openly admit concern: well, that could be _dangerous_. That could cost _lives_. That was what, at least in her colonel's self-hating mind, had condemned Hughes.

No…far better for him to stay distant. Except he can't stay distant, he doesn't know _how_—Roy never would have made it as far as he has, if he didn't lose sleep over every distant person he comes across. So he hides his real thoughts, and he tries to solve his problems in other ways; he steals Havoc's cigarettes rather then tell Jean to his face to quit. He uses other tricks, other angles, because he is an expert at creating them, an expert at salvaging them when they fall through.

And Hawkeye, who understands all of this better then the colonel himself, feels an irrational urge to shoot Havoc in the face for adding even this idle concern to Roy's heavy list.)

Roy looks down at all his paperwork, as a muttering Havoc leaves the room, pack of cigarettes in hand. Mustang sighs, and scratches his head. "Do I have to do all this?" he asks. "Can't we ignore it and pretend it never came?"

Hawkeye ignores this blatant attempt at changing the subject—this weakest of all her colonel's masks. "Sir," she says softly, "If you're concerned about Lieutenant Havoc's health, you should just tell him how you feel."

Roy's expression is a perfect blank. "I don't know what you mean, First Lieutenant," he says with a shrug of his shoulders. "Like you said before…it's none of my business what he does outside of the office. I'm just sick of him bringing that smell into the room, that's all."

(And Hawkeye knows she can do nothing but let him lie.)

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**EDIT**: A million thanks to **skywalker05** for catching some of the most retarded typos ever.


	29. 70: giddiness

**AN-** Nothing too drop-dead amazing, just me wanting to update. Like I said last time, I'll be ending this collection soon...but I've been writing it for so long, it's surprisingly difficult to hit that 'complete' button!

My Royai obsession's been a bit quieter lately, but all this talk of a new anime has me praying for some actual make-out scenes liek whoa.

Review, please--good or bad.

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_**Lessons in Manners  
**__(70. Giddiness)_

Roy never had been one for knocking.

He was _Roy Mustang_, after all—polite gestures were reserved for sucking up to superiors (or to pretty ladies who needed to be talked out of their clothing). In _his_ office, _he_ was king, so he simply barged in, not caring what Havoc or Breda (or whoever) was up to. It wasn't like Havoc or Breda (or whoever) would ever be up to something Roy didn't want to see.

(_Dear Gods in heaven, _Roy often thought, _don't let them ever be up to something I don't want to see!)_

So Roy didn't knock before entering his office. And that had never been a problem. But then one day he and Hawkeye returned from a mission mud-splattered; his hair was stiff with drying ooze, and the lieutenant's pretty face was flecked with dirt. Roy generally liked being presentable (cleanliness made superiors and ladies swoon), so he headed to the bathroom, to try and clean off.

He returned a few minutes later, coat slung over his shoulder, feeling rather good about the world. The mission had been a successful, if dirty, one—and there'd been a red-headed civilian giving him some interesting glances on the side. Notches in both bedposts, as it were.

But something strange caught his eye—Havoc sitting on the floor outside the office, smoking and looking half-awake at best. The heavy door was shut, but Roy knew it wouldn't be locked…Hughes had picked the lock so many times (despite Mustang's best efforts to keep the maniac and his photography at a distance, Maes was too much of a force of nature to control) that it no longer worked.

"Lieutenant," Roy barked. "In the office, not out of it."

"Can't, chief."

"Forgot how to open doors?"

"Sure. Maybe you could teach me." Havoc gave his customary slow grin. "Nah, Hawkeye's in there. She said not to come in until she gave the ok. And she meant it, sir. Did that eyebrow-raising thing she does when she's all business."

"The woman's always all business." Roy strode for the door. "We—and by we, I mean you—have reports to file about that mission."

"So? Procrastination's your best friend, chief."

"Not when getting out on time tonight means getting it on with a very feisty red-head in a low-cut top."

Havoc moaned. "Feisty red-head? Low-cut shirt? Shit, chief, don't tell me your mission was in the eastern district…!"

Roy paused for a minute, hand resting on the door knob. "As a matter of fact…"

The moan turned into a wail. "That's gotta be Ruth! I told her I'd swing by after work today!"

"Swing by before ten, or you might walk in on me screwing your date."

"I hate you! I swear, Colonel, I really hate you!"

"You'll hate me more when you see how many reports you have to file. Speaking of…" Roy turned his attention back to the office door.

Havoc puffed grumpily on his cig. "Hawkeye _said_ not to go in yet. It was an order and everything."

"I outrank her, and I say whatever Hawkeye's up to—"

Roy turned the handle…

"—can wait—"

…pushed open the door…

"—until after we're done here—"

…and realized very quickly that Riza Hawkeye was _not_, in fact, all business.

Roy felt his brain begin to drip from each ear. Behind him, Havoc cowered. "Oh, we're done here!" the second lieutenant groaned. "We're freaking dead and buried here!"

The colonel barely heard him, so intent—and stunned—was he about the image before him. His shocked (and wonderfully buxom) first lieutenant stood staring at him, mouth slightly agape, and eyes wide. (This was in fact her version of open-mouthed horror.)

Her muddy shirt was on the floor by her feet; a clean shirt was in her hands. And on her body was nothing but a lacy, lovely, _not in any way or in any universe business-like_ black bra. A bra that was currently encompassing Riza Hawkeye's ample—

Something inside Roy's skull began to fizzle.

"Chief?" Havoc whimpered in the background. He was staring franticly at the floor; his boss was ogling the first lieutenant's breasts with all the sensitivity of a rock (or perhaps a particularly dumb sea urchin). "Chief, maybe you should…um…"

Hawkeye drew her arms across her chest, but that only seemed to make her chest size more obvious; the colonel apparently couldn't help the faint grin that slid onto his face. The first lieutenant snarled, looking not so much flustered as furious, and turned slightly, bending down to get her shirt. Which gave the two men in the room a perfect view of what was underneath the bra…

Mustang actually groaned.

(Havoc, who was smarter than most people gave him credit for, turned and ran away.)

* * *

After that, Roy Mustang learned that walking in on Riza Hawkeye changing came at a high cost: one severely blackened eye, and one desperate need for a cold shower. Havoc got off easier: one of Hawkeye's withering stares, though those were never to be taken lightly.

Roy also learned to knock.


	30. 6 point 2: death

AN- I realize that I have another number 6 in this collection; I also realize that the site I originally got my list of 100 themes from had two or three 'extra themes' that I don't actually think have anything to do with Royai.

Oops.

Consider that first number 6 theme 101 or something, I dunno.

Also, dammit, FMA manga. Stop fulfilling all my angsty, Envy-pretends-to-be-Roy-to-trick-Riza-and-causes-chaos-and-Roy-loses-it-and-omg-Royai fantasies. At this rate, I'll never stop writing fanfiction. (Spoilers for the latest manga chapter, in case you couldn't tell.)

Reviews are loved.  
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_**Ways of the World  
**(6. Death)_

"_If I step off the path, shoot and kill me with those hands. You have that right."_

It happens, finally. Roy Mustang forgets who he is.

All is bright and dark and hot, too hot, but it's also too cold, and smoke is drifting up to the distant ceiling but Roy doesn't mind because he's used to breathing in ash and rot, used to it, even prefers it, prefers dirty air because dirty air feels better, feels more at home inside him-

(_and he isn't right for pure air, it stinks inside of him and turns him a hypocrite_)

-and the Envy-thing in front of him is howling as the juices in his eye-sockets melt away…

Roy Mustang has forgotten everything.

He is not a colonel, not a hero with a mission, not some would-be defender of the weak and the innocent—he is nothing but a man. An angry, miserable, _lonely_ man whose best friend died in a phone booth like a dog.

(_he has forgotten everything, everything, everything but Hughes and how Hughes isn't here and Hughes will never be here and Hughes was murdered and his murderer __**laughed**__)_

Envy is snarling, cursing; he keeps regenerating, and for that Roy is glad. One death, two deaths, three deaths, _Roy needs more._

Ever since this battle began, ever since he made his move and sent all of Amestris into a stunned civil war, he's focused only halfway on taking down Bradley. His other goal—no help for it—was to avenge Hughes, and that is what he is doing, and revenge is so stupid (Riza always tells him it's stupid) and he _knows_ that and he _agrees_ with that but Envy is in front of him now and Roy just doesn't _care_—

_(HughesHughesHughesisdead)_

Envy, desperate, turns and flees the room, running past fallen debris into a dark hallway. Roy charges after him with teeth bared.

Monster following monster. The way of the world.

* * *

Hawkeye has spent most of this rebellion feeling useless. Her guns don't work. The things she riddles with bullets don't stay down. Her colonel has lost his mind and she can do nothing to control him.

But she's a fool for lost cases, or maybe just this one lost case, so when Roy chases the demon Envy out of the room she knows she'll have to follow. He barks an order as he goes, telling her to stay behind-

(_all she knows of him sometimes is his back, because he walks two steps—exactly two—ahead of her at all times, and she guards it, she __**knows**__ it, she thinks she knows it better than his face_)

-but Hawkeye remembers what happened the last time she stayed behind: ruinous transfer orders and a colonel who strode out of Central HQ calmly, expression blank, but whose leg trembledtrembledtrembled against hers for the entire car ride back. It takes her maybe a second before she runs out after him. She has to.

(_she needs to see his back)_

But when she finds him, it _isn't_ him…the look in his eyes isn't lost, isn't yearning, isn't all the things she expects it to be. It's just cold. So she realizes that this is Envy and she shoots him, and she knows her bullets won't work but it feels so good to hit this demon and watch him bleed.

And the first time she shoots him, his voice is smooth and slivery: "What is the meaning of this, Lieutenant?" And that gives her some relief, because her colonel's voice would never be that dead.

(_nevereverever she'll never let that happen to him)_

Envy-Roy is furious as her bullets smash into his face, his chest, his rapidly slimming torso. Envy is disgustingly skinny, the equally-horrific counterpart to Gluttony's mass, and Hawkeye does what she never wants to do and takes pleasure in watching this grotesque carcass squirm.

_(and when Envy screeches, "you're together!?", she purses her lips into a stern frown and shoots him in the mouth. and it feels good. but there is something wrong about a creature that swallows bullets and doesn't die…)_

But then—the gun is out of her hands—the air is out of her lungs—Envy has her by two ugly, distended arms, and is strangling her—chopping her waist in two—and she thinks, _just don't let the colonel see…_

The colonel does see, though, and snaps his fingers. Envy pulls away, yowling with rage, and Hawkeye pushes herself up on legs she can no longer feel. And when the colonel calls her his 'dearest subordinate', she is distracted and nauseated by the tone in his voice.

(_dead)_

And Envy is furious…helpless…surrounded…out of lives…

His final transformation is a desperate one: he ends up some fish-like creature, tiny and pathetic. Roy pulls his mouth into a smirk that makes Hawkeye want to vomit.

"Sir," she says.

Her gun is in her hand again. Her gun is aimed at Roy Mustang's head.

"What is the meaning of this, Lieutenant?"

Her gun is aimed at Roy Mustang's head.

(_the look in his eyes isn't lost, isn't yearning, isn't all the things she expects it to be. it's just cold. nevereverever will she let this happen to him)_

She looks at him and feels a shiver down her spine. She doesn't recognize his back.


	31. 90: hidden expression, hidden feelings

AN-I'm having such problems writing lately…be in original or fanfiction. This is alright, except that in writing it I didn't know where it was going or how it would end, so it ended up being more of the same. I was hoping for some inspiration via Brotherhood, but so far the new anime has left me rather unimpressed.

Follows the original anime storyline, with references to a borrowed scene from the manga. An attempt at being subtle that ended up overusing the usual metaphors. This wasn't a theme I ever intended on doing--it's rather sappy--but I also didn't intend on writing more than a dozen or so themes total, over the space of three years.

Reviews are loved.

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_**Prayers for Refuge  
**(90. Hidden Expression and Hidden Feelings)_

_Knowledge is an alchemist's only god. But there are some things he would rather not know._

It starts when Roy asks his first lieutenant if she would mind saying at extra hour later at the office. He knows she'll accept his request without a moment's consideration or a single complaint, which makes her different (far different) from Havoc or Breda or any of the others. He needs, he explains to her, sitting behind his wood-paneled desk and drumming his fingers against its edge, to do some extra research. He'll need her help to find the right books and make the proper notes. He'd do it himself, but it's such a huge undertaking, one with a time limit, considering all those rumors they'll be leaving East City soon that she's no doubt heard about, and he never could read his own handwriting, so would she _mind_…?

"Research," Lieutenant Hawkeye repeats. Roy looks up at her with his dark eyes narrowed and looks far older than his twenty nine years. Hawkeye gives a crisp nod.

"I'll stay, Colonel," she says. (It's been exactly one month since they buried Hughes.)

* * *

It becomes something of a ritual for the two of them: the clock hand reaches the eight, the others leave, and they settle down for another evening of notes and preoccupied frowns. Hawkeye, whose sharp eyes notice everything, keeps an eye on the clock and realizes when the promised extra hour becomes two or even three, but never says anything. She can function well on little sleep, and the colonel is a man possessed with his research. Mustang's eyes become rimmed with bluish circles; she suspects he hasn't been sleeping since Hughes's funeral, but keeps these thoughts to herself.

She still isn't sure what it is they're researching. Mustang asks her to read through huge, dusty tomes on military procedure and hierarchy, highlight complicated and little-used alchemic formulae, take notes on the rambling works of ancient men…and all the while, he keeps his secrets and his focus a mystery. The range of work Hawkeye's dug through varies so widely, she can't guess at his true aim.

But the colonel glares down at the research papers in front of him with a feral look—stress-lines always did show up clearer on his pale, thin face—and Hawkeye decides it's better off not knowing just yet. She wants to ask him, _are you sleeping?_ _are you eating? are you drinking anything but whiskey_? She wants to say, _your face is so bony, and your uniform so baggy, and you always keep the jacket on, even when it's not cold._

Knowing, even without understanding the details, that this extra research has nothing to do with her and everything to do with avenging Maes, Hawkeye bends to her work.

* * *

Roy drinks in his research the way he drinks in booze. It's the same buzzing and burning in his chest, only where whiskey first creates and then numbs it, the research just increases the sting.

He _needs_ to know more. He _has_ to know more. He doesn't _care_ how long it takes.

Roy forgets that this obsession—sometimes he isn't even sure what he's looking for, besides some magic trick that will lead to the murderer's head resting at the foot of Maes's grave—isn't shared by everyone else. But when Lieutenant Hawkeye comes to him and asks for the night off, he is reminded with a vengeance.

She has, the lieutenant tells him briskly, been asked out for dinner by the manager of a bookstore that she often stops at after work. He is nice enough, and polite, and she would like if possible to leave at normal time.

Roy isn't sure what it is coiling poisonously at the pit of his stomach—he imagines frustration churning, screaming out with fangs bared: _doesn't she realize? Hughes is dead!_ But there is also jealousy, rising sure and quick, a green-grey vapor that drifts against his lungs and makes him gag. The Flame Alchemist finds himself struggling to keep the curses in, the selfish, needy bile in—he wants to break something, but he keeps that urge in too.

Oh, but isn't it silly: in the back of his mind, quite without realizing it, Roy had begun to consider his extra hours alone with Hawkeye as an extended date of sorts…as bizarre and unhealthy a date as it was. But of course she'd want an actual life now and then. Of course.

"Fine," he snarls at her. "Leave when you want." And what he wants to tell her is that he's going after Hughes's killers, and there's no time for personal pleasure, and anyway he wants her badly enough for it to _hurt_. But the man at the bookstore is nice, and polite. And he doesn't dream about a dead man and his widow.

_I'm terrified of Gracia,_ Roy wants to tell his lieutenant. _I know that if I see her, she'll remind me. And I can't afford to be reminded._

_Go ahead and enjoy your date,_ he hisses in his head. _Not all of us need to be dragged down._

"Colonel…"

Mustang pretends not to have heard her, rifling through papers to show just how busy he is. When a few moments go by and Hawkeye is still standing there, he announces, "It's fine if you go, Lieutenant. Frankly I've been considering putting my extra research on hold for now anyway. If those rumors of a transfer to Central are true, I'm going to need my spare time for…"

Hawkeye moves around his desk, taking careful, measured steps. Roy stares at her as she approaches, without the desk to keep them apart. "Sir," she says, "Self-pity is not an appealing look for you."

Roy blusters and protests: he's not being self-pitying. He doesn't care if she goes on her date. He has no right to tell her not to go.

He has every right, the lieutenant reminds him. And he's used that right more than once on Havoc. He has every right to demand that she stay by his side. Especially if she's needed here. Especially since their mission comes first.

"Aren't you the one who told me you were heading for the top? Didn't I promise to follow you, even into hell?"

"Considering how much of a hypocrite I'd be to tell you not to go out…" Roy begins. " If you want to take one night off…"

Hawkeye is standing right in front of him now. "You wouldn't mind if I did?"

"Of course not."

Now his lieutenant kneels down, so that they are on eye-level. Now she pauses for _only one moment_ (long enough for a whole plethora of thoughts to race through her head), and now she reaches out and carefully—_very carefully_—straightens his uniform jacket for him, readjusts his collar. Roy sits there, not daring to breathe, not daring to blink. Hawkeye's slender, calloused sniper's fingers move against his chest, against the side of his neck. Their warmth stings him when she smoothes out wrinkles in the jacket's heavy fabric.

As she works, her eyes betray no sign of unease. Her expression suggests that this is just one of her many attempts at keeping her superior officer looking presentable. Her hands are steady…her voice is smooth.

"Self-pity is not an appealing look for you," she repeats, "and being a self-appointed martyr will not help your goal. It will only make you bitter." Her fingers come to a rest. She is done fixing Roy's uniform for him, but she has yet to move her hands. "The Roy Mustang I first met at my father's house, the one I pledged to follow, is driven and arrogant, and he fights for what he wants. Please, always remember that."

Hawkeye pulls her hands away. She straightens up. She moves back around, to stand again at the other side of the desk.

It takes Roy a moment to get his thoughts together, and when he does he smirks just slightly.

(He will not tell Hawkeye how much he needs her, he decides. He will not stop fighting off the _ache_ she causes in him. Not yet, anyway. But he can still smirk.)

"Go on your date if you want, Lieutenant," he tells her honestly. Another pause—another smirk— "But something tells me that rumor that we're going to Central soon is going to be true. Be prepared to dump your store clerk." Roy puts a cocky emphasis on _store clerk_, and raises his shoulders to show off his gleaming epaulettes.

Hawkeye sighs. _He would be intolerably boastful, _she thinks, _if it wasn't for the tired bruising under his eyes.

* * *

_

Roy isn't sure, afterwards, if his lieutenant ever did go on her date. If she had, she never mentions it again, never comments on her relationship with the store clerk as being good, bad or at all existent. She's never been one to gossip idly, as do the office secretaries and Havoc, and her personal life stays hidden.

But if she had gone out, she'd gone out on a weekend, because she's never missing from their extra-hour sessions.

Roy feels a bit stupid bragging about his lady conquests now, though he continues to do so because he knows his group expects him to. And he still can't help but consider those late nights to be dates, of strange and injurious sorts. But most of all, Roy is glad for the verbal slap his lieutenant has given him—is gladder still that she'd never mentioned her date again. If she ever does find happiness with a store clerk, with _anyone_ but him…Roy hopes he will be glad for her, but there are still some things he would rather not know.

The rumors of relocating to Central become fact (Hughes had managed to guarantee that right before his death; another reminder of how helpful he was, how _gone_ he is, how determined Roy is to avoid his widow), so the late nights become filled with all the inane details of moving, and the extra researching is put aside. But Roy knows that once they've settled in again, he'll want to continue with his searching. Until he finds what he's searching for, until his faith in the god Knowledge is proven wise. Until he is sitting at the top, and Hughes's murder is lying in shreds, and he can face Gracia again.

And one day, as Hawkeye piles office supplies into boxes (she still hasn't asked the colonel what their research sessions were for), Roy stands by the big window by his desk and grins.

"You'll have to make sure to keep straightening my uniform out when I'm the president," he tells Hawkeye. "It's important for a leader to always look his best. And since you always do such a great job of keeping me looking my best…"

"If you have time to talk, you have time to pack," Hawkeye orders him. "Stop flirting with me and clean out your desk."

Central City awaits.


	32. 15: scent of blood

AN-- Sorry for the delay! Fanficdotnet won't let me log in at the school I'm studying abroad at currently. Dunno why. Delays are forcast for the future but I swear I'm still alive. Also, I'm reading reviews even if I can't respond to 'em--so thank you! (EDIT 11/01/09: Hey lookit this, my account's working again.)

Spoilers for chapter 100.....a chapter for which I have no words. GAH.

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**_Happy Endings_**

_(15. Scent of blood)_

And look: you've lost her. You always knew you would.

You thought you knew, anyway. But you didn't. Not really. You weren't prepared. And now look at you. Held captive, in the bowels of a burning city. What can you do to fix it all?

What can anyone do to fix this?

You're an alchemist in the end and Latin comes to your mind unbidden. You think: _there are one point five kilograms of lime in the body._ You think: _all the trace minerals can be found in any market. _You think: _I am lost, and there is no savior. Maybe there never was._

She thought there was—she followed you because she thought you could be the hero, thought you could make the changes. She had some idea in her head of you as the dark and brooding hero. And maybe she loved you…no, you know she did. And maybe you loved her back, but you can't really remember, because you can't really remember anything, there's nothing in your head but distant screams.

So there is the body, on the floor. You aren't sure if she's still breathing. You aren't sure if it matters. Her throat's been slashed and there's plenty of blood. You can smell it—metallic, sharp. Stubbornly, you consider putting her back together, putting all the blood back in. People have done it. People have tried.

The Elric brothers tried and lost everything but after all weren't they nothing but kids on a mission? They were naïve and you can't be naïve because you've already lost every ounce of innocence and trust and hope that you had. You knew reaching the top would be hard and you sit there with your arms pinned behind your back and know that you never really planned on reaching the top alone, you said you did and you pretended you did but in truth you always knew Hawkeye would be with you because where else would she be? You sit there and look back and realize that you planned on a Beautiful Future and a Happy Ending even as you told everyone you planned on losing everything, with a smirk.

Even as you warned everyone else how hard it would be you knew it wouldn't be so hard, it couldn't be, you'd already lost Hughes and now all there was to lose was Hawkeye so you'd make sure not to lose her because she was all you had left so you'd make sure, you'd make _sure_—

You think: _where can I find thirty-five liters of water in this building? No doubt the water lines are all disrupted by now. _You think: _stupid woman, why did this happen to her?_ You think: _Why not Scar? Scar is here and they could have killed him and it would have been a fitting death, a martyr's death, he's an Ishbalan and they're used to those. It could have been redemption for him and a motive for me to act like the hero and Save the Day, and we would have given him a very nice burial, and it all would have been like a book and perfect and why __**not**__ Scar goddamn it why not __**me**__ why __**Hawkeye**__, why the __**hell**__ was it __**her**__!_

You think: _I won't survive this._

* * *


End file.
